Puncture Repair
by Azertyrobaz
Summary: AU story. The Doctor is a doctor in contemporary London and Clara Oswald is the au pair for his nine year old son. A son who was dropped on his doorstep by a dying River Song two months before the story starts.
1. Chapter 1

**Puncture Repair**

_I leaned on you today_

_I regularly hurt but never say_

_I nearly wore the window through_

_Where was air-sea rescue?_

_The cavalry with tea and sympathy_

_You were there, puncture repair_

(Elbow, _Leaders of the Free World_)

He'd had another nightmare. As usual, he couldn't remember most of it. But the cold sweat on his back and his breathlessness told him it was a bad one. He got out of bed on shaky legs and scratched his scalp energetically with both his hands. He could still hear River's voice, a distant echo now, begging him in a broken voice to "save Sammy". Funny, because he'd never heard River begging for anything. In fact, she'd been the opposite of broken when she brought him Sam two months ago. He didn't know yet if today would be a day he would hate her memory or just pity it. Hate was a strong word, perhaps. But not strong enough for their son, apparently, who'd had no qualms about hurling the word at him on a regular basis ever since he'd arrived in his home.

The Doctor sighed, but couldn't stop himself from looking in on Sam as he made his way to the kitchen. The dream had rattled him, and seeing the small bundle under the covers put his mind at ease. For now, anyway.

The green clock on the microwave showed 4.44. He smiled slightly at this simple coincidence and poured himself a glass of cold water. He knew he wouldn't get back to sleep, and actually had some files to review, but he chose not to turn on the light, yet. He wanted to enjoy the darkness a little longer, and admire the reflection of the moon on the canal outside. He hoped this week would prove better than the last, but somehow doubted it. The Doctor knew it was still too recent for the young boy. It was easier all around to take things one day at a time, and it helped him stay sane as well. He didn't want to look too closely at the near future. His recurring nightmares were proof enough of how scared he actually was deep inside. Out of sheer necessity, the Doctor had always been very good at hiding his feelings, but he had to admit that he would soon be at his wit's end.

He walked towards his desk and set the glass down. He was now facing the pitch dark garden, and wasn't surprised to see a fox scampering away as soon as he switched on the light. The neighbourhood was full of them at night. He didn't mind. He liked how the most adventurous ones sometimes came very close to the glass window when he worked late into the nights. They had the most amazing eyes: fear and restlessness hidden behind yellow orbs. He always got distracted by listing all the attributes that likened them to dogs, and all the attributes that didn't, and made them their very own animal. The Doctor often wondered what made him his own person. He had never met his parents, and thus had had to rely on his imagination to guess what traits, physical or otherwise, he had inherited from them. He wanted to believe that in the end, the person he'd become was entirely his own, and no one else's.

He could see a lot of himself in Sam, and that realisation troubled him. He'd barely got to know River before she'd left unexpectedly, and he guessed the boy looked like his mother as well, but what he saw in his son's eyes was the same as what he saw when he looked in the mirror: fear and restlessness hidden behind grey orbs.

The Doctor eventually settled at his desk, booted up his computer, and started typing his latest patients' notes. He also needed to review some scans for his two o'clock elective surgery. He was still typing away when he heard Sam come downstairs shortly before seven. He closed all his documents, and then began the morning routine that had started almost as soon as Sam had arrived. The boy would eat cereals and a slice of toast with raspberry jam, drink a glass of orange juice, and refuse to be helped in any way in his preparations. The Doctor would eat a banana, drink coffee, and refrain from saying anything. The last part was fine by him, he wasn't much of a talker in the morning, especially after he'd spent the last few hours on tedious work. At least, the boy didn't seem to mind that they both sat next to each other at the kitchen bar. The Doctor saw it as a positive sign: he could have sat anywhere else in the house and eat on his own.

They would then each get ready. Sam would change and get his school things whilst the Doctor showered, then they would meet again downstairs and walk towards the car. Sometimes they would talk a little whilst he was driving: Sam about the classes he'd have that day, the Doctor about when he would be home that night. But most times they didn't, and the Doctor put on the radio to fill the silence. This was a quite morning, but at least Sam said goodbye to him before softly closing the car door.

Doing his rounds at the hospital's ITU still felt like part of this morning ritual, but his dreariness was eventually dispelled by his colleagues.

"Doctor, how are you? How's Sam?" his registrar, Martha Jones, almost always greeted him the same way. And every time, it felt as though someone had taken virtual headphones from his ears and he could finally join the outside world.

"Good morning, Miss Jones. Sam's okay. Didn't speak much this morning, but he seemed fine."

Martha didn't comment on the fact that he hadn't answered her first question, but she was used to it and didn't press him.

"Are Amy and Rory still making eyes at each other or are they going to join us soon?" he asked her, checking the board to see if any new patients had been admitted to the ward during the night.

"They're still in A&amp;E, possible acoustic neuroma. But they haven't paged me yet, so we'll see."

"Right, let's go and see Mr Cole, then. Who needs surgical trainees anyway? Since you'll be doing most of the operation."

"You think I can manage on my own?" asked Martha, who was visibly excited but still cautious.

"I wouldn't offer it to you if I didn't. And I'll be there next to you. Mr Cole, good morning."

Mr. Cole was their two o'clock elective. He suffered from a small temporal lobe tumour and had agreed to have surgery in order to remove it only recently.

"Today's the day, then? You're getting it out?" the older man grumbled. The Doctor could see he was still unsure about the operation.

"Yes, we are. The fits are getting more and more serious, you said so yourself." He then turned to Martha, knowing that she was actually better at this part of the job. And he hadn't missed the look of keen interest on Mr Cole's eyes every time his young registrar came in the room, and Martha hadn't either.

"The Doctor's right. Your life will finally get back to normal when the fits stop, I'm sure that's what you want," she told him, moving closer to the bed.

"Doctor? I thought you surgeons were called 'Misters' and such."

"You're right, although the Doctor here actually has a doctorate of neurology as well as being a neurosurgeon. So I guess the name stuck." Martha had simplified matters for the patient, who didn't need to know exactly how many doctorates the Doctor had, or that he was called the Doctor because nobody knew what else to call him and was too respectful to actually ask him. Except for Donna of course, but then he'd never given her a satisfactory answer either.

"Guess I'm in safe hands, then," acknowledged Mr Cole.

They left him and Martha went to check on their other patients in the ward whilst the Doctor went looking for his trainees who had eventually deemed safer to page him from A&amp;E to get his input for the diagnosis. With his help, they established that his high frequency hearing loss required an urgent MRI, which indeed eventually showed quite a large acoustic neuroma. They admitted the patient and the Doctor spent time with Amy and Rory to discuss the possible courses of actions. Both his trainees were smart, but he couldn't help thinking that they would be a lot more efficient if they didn't spend so much time bickering. Martha had wisely remarked that they were too stubborn to admit that they were meant for each other. The Doctor trusted Martha on such matters, since they were definitely beyond his realm, as it had been made painfully clear to him many times in the past.

It was nearing one when he got a page. He worried it might be another specialist in the hospital asking for his opinion - he often got such pages - given that he would soon need to get ready for Mr Cole's surgery. But it came from Donna, at the surgery ward reception. He quickened his steps, fearing it might be a patient crashing, but Donna was holding a phone for him when he arrived.

"It's the school, they want to speak to you about Sam," she told him in a calm tone that only worried him more, especially since she wouldn't relinquish the phone.

"Is he okay? What happened?" The Doctor couldn't help but notice that his hands were shaking. His hands never shook, even during the most delicate of brain surgeries.

"He's fine, Doctor, don't worry, I asked them. He just got into a bit of trouble apparently." He wasn't surprised Donna had gotten all the information she needed - he knew she could be persuasive. He breathed a sigh of relief, felt his heart-beat slowing to a less alarming tempo, and then and only then she handed him the phone, as though she'd been paying attention to his symptoms as well.

"Hello?"

"Am I speaking to Samuel Song's father?"

"Yes, sorry, I was with a patient."

"I understand, Doctor Song." He didn't correct the man. Sam hadn't changed his name, and the Doctor didn't have any to give him in the first place anyway. "This is head teacher Ryan Miller speaking, at St Matthews."

"Is he alright? What happened?"

"I'm afraid there's been a bit of an altercation involving your son. He was fighting with an older boy and we had to separate them. Samuel broke his nose, you see."

"He broke his...? Right. And you're calling me because you want me to..."

"This is very serious, Doctor Song. We do not allow such behaviour at our school," the man interrupted him.

"Of course sir, I understand," the Doctor answered in the most contrite voice he could muster.

"We know Samuel's home-life is a bit...difficult at the moment, and we certainly feel sympathetic. But we cannot let this go unpunished. I'm afraid we're going to have to exclude him for a little while, and give him time to think about his actions."

"Exclude him?"

"You should come over to discuss this matter more privately. But yes, I think it might be best. For a couple of weeks, say." The man sounded very reasonable, but to the Doctor his words didn't make much sense.

"A couple of weeks? He's only nine, for heaven's sake. I'm sure it can't be that bad, really."

"As I said, he broke the other boy's nose. A boy two years older than him, I might add. I would really prefer it if we could discuss this in private, but I think this attitude should be dealt with as quickly as possible. It could be the symptom of much more serious problems. We can certainly refer you to some very capable psycholog..."

This time, the Doctor was the one who interrupted the head teacher: "There's nothing wrong with my son, I'll come and pick him up now. I don't want any psychologist talking to him in my absence."

"Of course, I was only..." but the Doctor had already hung up, fuming. He closed his eyes, rested his elbows on the bank and scratched his scalp energetically and somewhat compulsively.

"Doctor? Is Sam alright?" Donna asked in a much quieter voice than usual. He had almost forgotten she was there.

"Yes. But I have to go and pick him up. Shit, the two o'clock elective..." he realised quickly, feeling more guilt for Martha's sake than for Mr Cole's. She'd been excited about performing the surgery virtually on her own. She had earned that privilege. But he still needed to be present, she was only starting as a registrar.

"I'm sure it can be rescheduled. And Martha and your trainees can deal with everything until you sort this out. Your son's more important," as was often the case, Donna went straight to the point.

"Right. Yes. You're right. I should go. Could you..."

"I'll page Martha and explain where you are."

"Thanks. Tell her I'll call as soon as I can, and tell her..."

"Yes, yes, you're sorry about the surgery. Now, go!" she all but dismissed him.

The Doctor dropped his white coat and picked up his wallet and keys, glad that he hadn't scrubbed in for the surgery yet. The drive to the school took more time than it usually did because of the midday traffic, and he silently - and not so silently - cursed at a few other drivers. He remembered the way to the head teacher's office from less than two months ago when he'd accompanied Sam on his first day. It felt like such a long time ago already.

He found his son sitting on an uncomfortable looking couch with his head down low and his right hand cradled carefully in his left. He barely acknowledged the presence of the head teacher and another boy with a bloody nose who was comforted by a plump woman - his mum, probably - before kneeling in front of Sam.

"Are you alright? Look at me," he asked in a quiet voice. Perhaps surprised by his tone, Sam raised his eyes to him. They were red, but he wasn't crying. And he could read defiance in them. _Good_, the Doctor thought, somewhat reassured.

"Does your hand hurt?"

"No."

"Can you make a fist with it?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

The boy obliged, but the Doctor could see he was in pain.

"Can I see, please?"

He took his son's hand and observed it carefully, trying to be as gentle as possible in his ministrations. The knuckles were bloodied and it was a bit swollen.

"I don't think it's broken, but we'll have to make sure later, okay?" Sam nodded, looking subdued but responsive, at least. The Doctor gave him a small smile, and finally rose up to turn and speak to the others.

"You could have given him some ice for his hand," he told the head teacher.

"He broke my son's nose!" the woman interrupted, as though it was sufficient an explanation for his son's lack of medical treatment. He noted that the other boy, who actually looked much older than a mere eleven, had at least been given cotton pads.

"You shouldn't have him tilt his head back like that, he could choke on the blood," the Doctor told the mother. The nose did look broken from where he was standing, but he resisted offering to diagnose the boy, knowing it would be a painful process he might take worrying pleasure in. Also, he doubted the mother would agree, given how murderous she looked.

"Is there anything I need to sign before I can take my son home? Does he have all his stuff with him?" he then asked the head teacher as calmly and reasonably as he could.

"Huh, yes actually. A couple of things to sign, and..."

"I'm sure we can agree on a meeting tomorrow or later this week to discuss things?"

"Y...Yes, good idea, I'm sure cooler heads are what we need in this situation," the head teacher seemed glad that someone else was taking charge of said situation. He seemed utterly out of his depths.

"Cooler heads?" the plump mother said in an angry tone. She now looked as red as her son, noted the Doctor who stared at her intently. This stopped her from saying whatever she'd meant to say next.

The Doctor signed the two sheets of paper the head teacher handed him, making sure that none of them actually stipulated that his son was expelled permanently from the school and gestured for him to follow him out. Seeing that he had a hard time lifting his backpack, he took it from him. Once outside, he didn't realise that the boy hadn't followed him all the way to the car and was lagging behind.

"What's wrong? Is your hand hurting badly?" he asked, walking closer.

"I didn't think you would come," Sam muttered in a small voice.

"What are you talking about? Of course I was going to come."

"You came really quickly," the boy added, now looking at his shoes. The Doctor didn't think he'd arrived quickly. There'd been traffic, and the mother of the other boy had already been there as well. She'd managed a lot better. That probably made her a better parent than him, the Doctor thought.

"I wasn't going to leave you there, was I? Come on, we should get home and put some ice on that hand," the Doctor didn't wait for an answer and once again walked resolutely to the car. This time, he heard Sam's small steps following behind him.

The ride home was quiet, as usual. As soon as they arrived, the Doctor took Sam to the kitchen to put some ice on his hand. He advised him to keep it as long as possible and to refrain from using his hand. He knew his son wouldn't be happy about that, since he seemed to be spending his time drawing or reading old and heavy ancient history books he had brought with him.

"Why don't you go and watch some telly in the other room? I have to call the hospital."

Sam looked surprised, but did as he was told. It seemed to the Doctor that television hadn't played a great part in his son's life until now, which didn't surprise him given all the time he had apparently spent travelling around the world with his mum. He certainly preferred that he spent as little time watching it as possible, and guessed it was one less worry for him, but it meant that he was also at a loss when it came to punishing him. He knew he'd probably have to do something, but he didn't know what exactly. He wasn't going to take away his books or his pencils, was he? But here he was, his son excluded from school, and he was telling him to go and watch telly.

Seeing that he had settled on a documentary on the Pharaohs - obviously - he went back to the living room and called the surgery ward to speak to Martha. Two o'clock had gone and past. She answered promptly.

"Doctor, is everything alright? Is Sam okay?" she sounded genuinely worried, even though Donna had in all likelihood told her what had happened.

"Yes, he's okay. He hurt his hand a little, but it's not broken. I don't think so, anyway. But he's been excluded for two weeks and I'll have to go and talk to his head teacher at some point."

"It was that bad?"

"He broke another kid's nose. But the boy looked like a bully to me, I don't know."

"You haven't asked him?" He could hear the surprise in his young registrar tone. But the Doctor had always thought it best to let Sam tell him what was wrong, since he would simply shut down when he tried to ask him questions. He had learned quickly that it was the only way to prevent him from hurling "I hate you" at him. Granted, the house was thus very quite. But he believed the young boy would eventually come out of his shell. He didn't know exactly whose sanity he was preserving by doing that. He hoped both of theirs.

"No, but I will," he answered, even though he probably wouldn't. Martha seemed to see through his words. After all, she was starting to know him fairly well, and was aware that he wasn't much of a talker either.

"You should. And Doctor, what are you going to do with him for the next two weeks?"

He admitted silently to himself that he hadn't really thought about that yet. The hospital had been really understanding for the past two months, and had allowed the Doctor to have a more flexible schedule which involved less paging in the middle of the night. It was in their best interest to keep the Doctor on their payroll - since he could probably get a job in any hospital or clinic he wanted, given his reputation - but it didn't mean they wouldn't bat an eyelid if he were to ask for more days off. He knew his new home-life was putting a strain on the whole surgical ward. His reputation would only get him so far in the compassion department. Was that the end? Was he going to retire? He certainly had enough money and he could still publish. He'd miss the challenges of the operating theatre, though.

"Doctor? You still there?"

And yes, he would miss Martha, his promising registrar in neurosurgery. And his trainees Amy and Rory who would certainly make great surgeons as well one day if they stayed focused. He didn't think he was that great a teacher, but the hospital still pressured him to keep on taking new trainees every year. And he'd been told that being trained by him was a coveted spot among medical students.

"Doctor?"

No. He couldn't abandon Martha, she was so close to her goal. And he couldn't abandon all his other colleagues who counted on him. All the other doctors and surgeons at the hospital who would swallow their pride and ask for his help, every so often. He'd have to figure something out with Sam, and quick. He feared it would soon be too late and the boy would become so closed off no one would manage to pull him out.

"Yes, sorry. I was just... thinking."

"Well, I do have an idea, but I don't know if you'll like it." He could tell from her tone that she had actually been thinking about this idea for a while, and was only now putting it forward to him.

"I'm listening," if he were completely honest, the Doctor was ready to agree to pretty much anything when it came to Sam.

"I have this friend. Close friend. Clara Oswald, she's my age, and... Have you thought about getting an au pair or a nanny? She would be perfect for Sam."

"An au pair?"

"Yes, you know. Someone living with you and taking care of Sam when you're not there, helping him with his homework and things around the house if necessary..."

"I know what an au pair is, I just..."

"I know you value your privacy and that it would be a big step. But think about it: Sam is only nine, you can't have him spend too much time by himself at home. And given what happened at the school, he might need some help with his classes."

"Right, but..."

"She's studying to be a university teacher, writing her thesis for her Ph.D and all that. But I know she has a lot of free time, and well... Her living arrangements at the moment aren't the best. She's great with kids, I actually got to know her because she used to babysit my cousins, Angie and Artie, a few years ago."

The Doctor knew Martha tended to speak very quickly when she was nervous. But he also knew she was very good at convincing him.

"And Doctor... She lost her mum when she was a kid. She doesn't talk much about it, but I think she would be great for Sam."

This last argument was what clinched it for the Doctor, but he wouldn't admit it to her yet.

"Have you spoken to her about it? Do you think she would agree to all that? It's... I know the situation at the moment is far from ideal."

"She actually thrives in difficult situations and trust me, I know I can convince her." He admired how Martha could be confident both inside and outside the hospital, something the Doctor was quite incapable of copying.

"Right."

"I'll call you back tonight, there's no need to come back to work, really. I've postponed Mr Cole's surgery for the end of the week to give us time, and Amy and Rory's acoustic neuroma can wait for a while as well. Especially since the patient will need convincing. He doesn't want surgery, says he likes hearing music."

"Music?"

"Yeah, the ringing is music to him. And anyway, you said so yourself, it isn't likely to grow. But we're still keeping him in the ward, you'll have time to review his case."

"You page me if anything changes."

"Of course. And I'll call you tonight once I've spoken to Clara. Say hi to Sam for me and tell me if you need me to bring anything from the hospital for his hand."

"Thank you, I will. Talk to you later."

He walked back to the living room to sit on the couch with Sam, who was still watching TV but didn't seem to be paying much attention to it. He didn't know if he should tell him about Clara, yet. Or at least the possibility of there being someone else taking care of him. The Doctor didn't like that idea very much, even though he knew he was probably terrible at being a parent. He'd never really thought about having children. No, that wasn't quite right, he had thought about it, back when he was not much older than Sam, actually. After another failed adoption. He remembered quite clearly how he pledged that when or if he ever had children, he would do it right. He would be a great father. He would be attentive and loving. He would be there no matter what.

Not knowing what to do, he silently gestured for Sam to hold out his right hand for him so that he could examine it once again. It was less swollen, and he seemed to be moving it more easily. Definitely not broken, but he'd have to keep on checking on it. When all else failed, he guessed he was still a doctor.

Back at the hospital, Martha finally found the time to take a small break to call Clara. She hadn't heard from her in the last few weeks, and hadn't been lying to the Doctor when she told him that her living arrangements weren't the best. She had repeatedly offered her to come and live with her and Mickey for a while, but Clara had always valued her self-respect, and could also be a bit stubborn. Nevertheless, she knew she couldn't write her thesis and study in such conditions.

"Hello?"

"Clara? It's Martha. Is it a bad time? Can you talk?"

"Hey, Marth. No, it's fine. And it's good to hear from you, how are you?" Martha could hear that Clara had moved from the noisy room she'd been in when she first picked up the phone. And her friend sounded genuinely glad to be hearing from her.

"Not bad. You know, busy like hell, but it's worth it. What about you? Still in Kentish Town?"

"Yeah, I'm getting used to it. The place is quiet during the day and I can work. The guys can get a bit noisy during the night, playing music and stuff, but as I said: getting used to it." Clara was living with three other students from her university. But she was the eldest of the lot by quite a few years, and the only one who actually had real studying and working to do. Knowing that her thesis was a sore subject, she decided to go straight to the point and not waste her friend's time.

"Do you remember me telling you about the Doctor?"

"Your boss right? Well, more like your mentor if I remember correctly."

"Right, I'm his registrar. And he's the most gifted surgeon I've ever seen or heard of. And I'm far from being the only one to think that."

"Impressive, then?" Clara joked.

"You could say that. Anyway, remember I told you he had a son?"

"Yeah, you told me this bizarre story of how his kid just turned up out of the blue one day and he had to take care of him because his mother had to leave or something."

"Yes. Well, the kid's in trouble, he's been excluded from his school for two weeks and the Doctor, as you can imagine, is at a bit of a loss. I don't think he ever thought he would have to take care of a nine year old child on his own. And... I kind of thought you'd be perfect."

"Perfect for what?"

"For him. I mean, for the kid, to help." Martha had a harder time convincing Clara than she had had convincing the Doctor, but she wouldn't give up.

"Help how? Martha, what are you talking about? What have you done?"

"Nothing! It's just... I know you've always loved children, and you were great with my cousins and they adore you. And the Doctor's really nice. A bit... weird sometimes, in the way that super-smart people can be. He knows millions of stuff about millions of things and I'm sure he could even help you with your thesis."

"Back up a few steps, there. What have you told him? Have you gotten me a job without my permission?" Clara didn't sound pissed off, but it was close, and Martha knew she'd have to thread very carefully now.

"I haven't gotten you anything, yet. I just mentioned you to him and told him you might be interested. Maybe you should meet him and see what you think. I'm not forcing you into anything." Clara sighed, but she wasn't yelling or saying no, at least.

"What would this job entail, exactly? Babysitting the kid? Picking him up from school? Helping him with his homework? What?"

"Actually, the Doctor would consider taking you as an au pair."

"Au pair? As in living with them in their house? Are you mad?" The yelling part had then started.

"Listen to me, it would be perfect! He works all day, he can even get called back during the night. His kid is at school most of the time as well and you'd have the whole house to yourself to work! I've been there, it's actually really nice, and quiet. With a garden. And tons of books everywhere."

"Where is it?"

"Maida Vale, by the canal."

"Mmh. Nice. Posh."

"Yes, very." Martha had known the neighbourhood would definitely help. Clara would never admit to it, but she liked creature comforts. And she loved taking walks along leafy, quiet streets.

"And this Doctor guy, he's not a creep or anything?"

"Of course not! He's wonderful. He just needs help. He's not doing too good at the moment, I think his son doesn't really like him. But I know he wants things to be better and he's doing his best. I guess he's not wired up like most people, and things we find simple are really tricky for him. And as I said, he's really bright, if a bit stand-offish." Clara had always had a thing for _different_ people, interesting people. And Martha couldn't think of anyone better fitting that description than the Doctor.

"Right. So... What do you _suggest_ I shall be doing then?"

"Well, I said I would call him back tonight to tell him if you were interested. I guess you should all meet, and see what you think. But you'd have to decide pretty quickly, with Sam being excluded from school, it's going to be difficult for the Doctor with work at the hospital and all that."

"I get it, you need your mentor, and for that to happen I have to watch over his kid."

"I didn't say that!"

"I was joking, don't worry. And I understand. I know what your work means to you. It certainly means a lot more than my bloody thesis does to me. And I respect that, really. I'm in awe of your work and dedication. If I can help, I will." Martha almost had tears in her eyes, which made her decision to tell her something she had omitted all the more difficult.

"Thank you. And just so you know... The kid's mother, she didn't just leave, she's dead." She hated herself for having to do that, and hoped Clara wouldn't think that she was using her and her own grief. But she also needed to be told the truth, lest she messed things up with Sam.

"Are you... Can I give him your number? Or would you rather I let you call him?"

"It's fine, you can give him my number. Tell him he can call whenever he wants and we'll agree on a time to meet." Her friend sounded a lot more subdued, and Martha did feel guilty about that. She'd have to find a way to apologise to her. And she promised herself she would do it no matter what, even if she decided not to go and help the Doctor. She couldn't blame her if she refused, it had to be her decision in the end, even though she was pretty sure the situation would work for the best for all parties involved.

"Okay, thank you so much, Clara. We'll speak soon, yeah? And if that makes you more comfortable, we can meet him together."

"Thanks, but I think I should do it on my own, you know?"

"Right, I'd be less likely to influence you that way, that's true," she joked, even though that would probably be the case. They hung up soon after that, and Martha breathed a sigh of relief. She hoped things turned out okay and that she hadn't made a mistake with Clara. Only time would tell, she guessed. She'd have to call the Doctor tonight at the end of her shift to let him know and give him Clara's number, in any case. For now, she still had patients to see and trainees to torture - _slightly_ \- it was part of her job, after all.

That evening, just as Clara was contemplating how wonderful it would actually be to leave this place - one of her roommates had decided that blasting techno in the small, echoey bathroom was actually a really good idea - she got a call from a number she didn't recognise, and guessed this must be the elusive Doctor.

"Clara Oswald speaking," she introduced herself, thinking a good impression wouldn't go amiss.

"Miss Oswald? Good evening, I'm huh... I work with Martha Jones, I don't know exactly what she told you..."

_She didn't tell me you were Scottish, for one thing._

"You're the Doctor, right?"

"That's right. She gave me your number so that we could...What did she tell you exactly? I don't want to assume anything."

"Only that you might need help with your son, and the possibility of it being an au pair thing. Or a nanny or whatever the term actually is in that case."

"Yes, I also thought au pair meant that you had to be foreign and studying the host country language or something. But apparently not. Well, the agency didn't seem to imply it was compulsory."

"You contacted an au pair agency?"

"No no, I just checked a few websites that's all." Clara could hear that the man was a bit nervous. But at least he seemed serious about finding someone for his son.

"Oh, okay. So..." she was interrupted by a particularly loud sound coming from the bathroom. She actually hoped her roommate had dropped his stereo in the bath and electrocuted himself. But unfortunately, the music - if she could call it that - started again seconds later.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, sorry. That was my roommate. He's... I don't know what he's doing. So, huh, your son. Samuel, right?"

"Right. He's nine, he's in Year 4 at primary school. And he's only been living with me for the past two months so... Well, I guess he's having a hard time adjusting, but that's probably to be expected."

"And Martha told me he's been excluded for a couple of weeks?"

"Yes, it just happened today, I haven't really had time to..." but the rest of his sentence was drowned out by her roommate singing - _singing! _\- in the bathroom next door. How was it possible to sing over techno music?

"Listen, maybe we should discuss all that face to face?" she all but yelled in the receiver.

"Sorry, yes, I seem to have caught you at a bad time."

"No, not at all... Tell you what, how about tonight?"

"Tonight?"

"Yes, to discuss things in more detail. Martha implied that you might need help sooner rather than later." Clara had moved to the kitchen, hoping it would be easier for her to hear the Doctor over there.

"Right. Well, yes, you can certainly come over tonight. But Sam might be in bed by the time you arrive, and I'm guessing you'd like to meet him. But sure, if it's no trouble, that would be great."

"Perfect. Could you text me the address? I'll be there as soon as possible. I mean, if texting is something..." Clara had never asked Martha how old the Doctor actually was. He didn't sound ancient over the phone, and he did have a nine year old kid, but who knew?

"Yeah, yeah, I know how to text." That was the first time she heard a semblance of mirth in his voice.

"Good, sorry if I seem so hasty..." The kitchen wasn't proving such a great place to talk, since one of her other roommates had apparently deemed it the best place to make out with his girlfriend.

"No, no, that's fine. On the contrary, you're actually doing me a favour, my schedule can get pretty hectic. If you're sure meeting at my home won't make you uncomfortable or..."

"Don't worry. And I guess I should see the place where I might move in, right? I mean, it that's still..."

"Yes, of course."

"Good, I will meet you soon then, Mr..."

"The Doctor. Just the Doctor is fine."

"Right. The Doctor."

Clara wondered if she hadn't been too presumptuous in inviting herself tonight at his place. But after all, Martha had said it was pretty urgent. And the Doctor hadn't seemed to mind. She knew her decision had been influenced by her roommates - she had to get out tonight or she would go mad - and this had been a great opportunity. Also, she had to admit that underneath his nervousness, the Doctor had sounded like someone she wanted to meet face to face. She didn't know why exactly. Who knew, maybe it was only the Scottish accent. She promptly received a text with his address and how to get to his place from the nearest tube station. The text was concise and well-written, and she mentally kicked herself once again for having doubted his ability to do such a simple task. But then, she knew people who couldn't work a toaster, so really... And no, she wasn't speaking about herself.

It only took her about 30 minutes to reach Warwick Avenue tube station, even though she'd had to use three different lines. She then found the Doctor's house very easily thanks to his text. He lived in a white, stucco fronted house in Little Venice which must cost a fortune in the current market. He faced the canal directly, which was as quiet and peaceful as she remembered with its colourful houseboats. She noticed a blue one right across from his door that she rather liked. She knocked, seeing a doorbell but fearing she might wake the boy, since it was close to nine. She had a flash of terror, just before the Doctor answered: was it safe for her to be here at a stranger's house so late at night? But the flash passed just as quickly as it took said stranger to answer the door.

He didn't look like she'd expected. Both younger and older all at once. She guessed he was around fifty, with a full head of curly and slightly tousled greying hair, grey eyes, distinctive nose and eyebrows and a thin face to go with his thin and elegant figure.

"Miss Oswald?"

"Clara is fine," she answered, copying his parting words on the phone. He smiled, nodded, and let her in. He was also quite tall, but then most people were quite tall to her. The house looked just as beautiful from the inside as it did from the outside. Airy, white, with large windows opening on the back garden and book cases apparently on every wall, Martha hadn't lied about that.

"Would you like some tea, or...?"

"Tea would be fine, thank you." She went to the first room she saw to the left of the kitchen. It was apparently used as both dining room and living room. A big table was placed directly against the bay window which faced the canal. The walls were covered with books, old and new, some written in languages she recognised and others in languages she didn't, but a concession had been made so that there was room against the wall for a fireplace, which was apparently used often. She sat on a comfortable white couch across from it, and admired how inviting all the other armchairs in the room looked. This was definitely a nice place to read, with the plush grey carpet under her feet.

The Doctor appeared with a plate he set on the round coffee table. She could see he only had socks on his feet - stripy ones - and wondered if she should have taken her shoes off at the door. He seemed to understand her predicament and quickly set her mind at ease:

"Oh, don't worry about your shoes, it's fine. I just... like to wear socks around the house, but it's not compulsory." She found this little personally trait amusing, but didn't comment on it.

"Milk? Sugar?"

"Just sugar, please." Clara let him fix her tea, and watched him add milk - but no sugar - to his. The opposite, then. Typical.

He sat in an armchair on the right-side of the couch, and let her have a sip of tea before he spoke.

"I'm sorry, Sam went to bed. He usually reads for a while before falling asleep, but I think the day drained him, and his hand was still probably a bit painful."

"That's alright, I'm sure we can find another time for me to meet him. What happened at the school? I mean, if you don't mind me asking."

"Not at all, you have the right to know. As I had started to tell you on the phone, he got excluded because he punched a kid. An older kid. For whatever reason, the head teacher seemed to think that was the crux of the matter. That and the fact that he broke his nose, I guess."

"Wow," Clara couldn't help uttering, "no wonder he hurt his hand. But what happened? I mean, does he often get into fights, or..."

At that, the Doctor had set his mug back on the table, and started ruffling his hair with both his hands.

"I don't know. I mean, I don't think so. Surely the head teacher would have mentioned something. Sam didn't say anything, but then he's not saying much to me at the moment."

"You didn't ask him about the fight today?" pressed Clara, which only made the Doctor scratch his scalp with more vigour. She guessed it was a nervous habit.

"No, I thought... I thought he'd tell me if it was really serious. And I know this doesn't sound very responsible..."

"I'm not here to judge you or your parenting," she interrupted him, hoping to reassure him, or at least make him stop torturing his poor hair.

"Well, maybe you should," he answered truthfully, finally dropping his hands.

"I'm not a specialist. I mean, if that's what you're looking for, I'm really not in a position to..."

"No, no, that's not what I meant. I don't want a _specialist_. The head teacher wanted me to get him to a psychologist, but I definitely want to avoid that if I can." She found that interesting, especially coming from a doctor, but she guessed he had his reasons.

"I just meant... I know parenting is not an exact science and I'm pretty new at it, but the best thing... Well, the only thing that seems to be working for the both of us is to take things one day at a time. I let him come to me with his problems. Pressing him only resulted in shouting on his part."

"I don't think there's a good or a bad strategy when it comes to parenting, and as I said I'm certainly no expert. I guess I'll have more to tell you on that subject once I've met him. How has he been getting on at school apart from that?" The Doctor seemed more calm now, and he had taken his cup back. She observed his long-fingered hands as he answered.

"Pretty well, I think. The few notes I got from his teachers were encouraging. He accepted some of my help with Maths. I guess he didn't have too much schooling on that. But he's doing fine in English and thriving in History and Geography, obviously. His mother was an archeologist, she travelled to many places with him: Egypt, India, South America...He's very passionate about all that, which I can understand."

"He must have had an interesting childhood, that's for sure."

"Yes, I imagine." His answer surprised her, but once again, she didn't comment.

"So, tell me. What would that entail if I were to work as an au pair for you? What did you have in mind exactly?" The Doctor seemed glad she had changed the subject.

"Well, the house is pretty big, I'll show you around if you want. You could have the guest room upstairs - it's never really been used - the window looks onto the garden so it's really quite. You'd have room to work there or anywhere else in the house, or even the houseboat if you ever want more privacy."

"The houseboat?"

"Yes, I have one on the canal."

"The blue one right across from your house?" she asked hopefully.

"Yes," he answered, surprised "I used to spend time tweaking and repairing it during the weekend, but not so much lately. It has electricity and running water and everything. But I don't keep any valuable stuff there, it's mostly books."

"I'm not surprised, you seem to be running out of room, here."

"You haven't seen the rest of the house, yet," he answered, smiling, and Clara decided she quite liked his smile, crooked as it was.

"Up until now, I've been taking Sam to school every morning and picking him up at the end of the afternoon. I often had to go back to the hospital for a couple of hours after that, but the staff's been very understanding. They changed my schedule so that I didn't have to be on call at night, except when there was an emergency. It actually only happened once these past two months, which is a miracle. I'm pretty sure they wouldn't mind me switching back to my old schedule," he finished, grimacing slightly.

"You told me it was pretty hectic."

"Well, not as bad as Martha's, actually. I'm often only called at the last minute or when there's no one else. She basically has to be there the rest of the time, except when it's my turn to be on call. I'm quite senior over there now, and neurosurgeons don't usually get as many operations as other surgeons, but I think I'd still need to be on night call two nights a week. The rest of the week would be pretty normal, except if I get a page for an emergency, of course."

Martha seemed to be spending her life at the hospital, it was true. But she knew how much she loved her job, and she still managed to make it work with her boyfriend Mickey. She was wonder-woman, really, as far as Clara was concerned. She was pretty sure the Doctor was downplaying his role at the hospital and his actual work-hours so as not to scare her, but she knew what she was getting into, and she knew a workaholic when she saw one.

"So, maybe on the days you have a day shift you could take Sam to school in the morning and I could pick him up at four, and on the days you have a night shift we'd work the other way around? I mean, unless you'd want me to deal with both everyday, I don't mind."

"No, that seems like a good plan. I think I should still do as many school runs as I can, they're important. I mean, I think."

"Yeah, they are," Clara smiled, happy to see that he wanted to be involved in his son's life as much as possible. She'd babysat children parents just weren't much interested in, especially when it came to school things.

"The school's really close by, actually. Just a 10 minute walk. We take the car because it's easier for me, since the hospital's quite a bit further away, but I think Sam would enjoy walking more. I'm not sure he likes traveling by car, he's even quieter than usual when we drive."

They spent some more time planning a schedule for Sam and how Clara would fit in it. And she had to agree it seemed quite reasonable to her, and she could definitely see herself working and living here. He told her she didn't need to do any of the housework - news she gratefully welcomed - since a cleaning lady came every Friday morning to help around. She added that she loved cooking and didn't mind making dinner every so often. At that, the Doctor replied that he quite liked cooking, too, when he had the time. Although the results weren't always the best. Thankfully, Sam seemed to like eating almost anything, and was only specific about his breakfast.

He eventually showed her around the house, which was indeed quite spacious. The room across the kitchen was apparently used as an office. It had a big desk with a recent desktop computer, and all the books covering the walls seemed to relate to medicine. The desk was facing large glass windows which opened on the garden, and Clara agreed that this too seemed like a great space to work in. The last room downstairs was apparently another living room with two big couches, a TV, and still many books. Upstairs, the space was as big as downstairs, with three bedrooms and two bathrooms. He showed her briefly the room she might call her own if she accepted to come and work here, and Clara was tempted to say yes on the spot. The large bed with white covers looked more inviting than she could possibly say, and it made her realise how tired she actually was. It wasn't really late, but she'd been sleeping piteously the last few weeks. She also noted enviously how quiet the house was.

They walked back downstairs where the Doctor made her another cup of tea, and she tried to stop herself from yawning too often. The Doctor didn't look tired, but she guessed that given his job, he was more used to dealing with it or at least hiding it.

"Am I keeping you from any work tonight by the way? Did you have things to review or..."

"No, don't worry, I'm up to date. Martha is being a huge help. How did you meet, actually?"

"I used to be an au pair for her uncle, Mr Maitland. I was just starting university and I guess I felt a bit homesick, and liked living among a family."

"Where's home for you?"

"My dad's in Liverpool. I don't think I'll ever get him to move anywhere else, but I still go quite often when I have the time. It's a nice city once you get to know it. Although I could do with a little less rain. Speaking of rain, where are you from originally in Scotland?" The Doctor smiled slightly at that, and took a sip of tea before answering.

"I was born in Glasgow. I spent most of my childhood thereabouts. I moved south to England in my teens."

"You still have family over there?"

"Maybe," he answered, evasively.

"What do you mean?" Clara asked, puzzled.

"I'm an orphan. I never knew my parents and never really had anything close to what you would call a family. There's nothing left for me back in Scotland, but I guess I still kept the accent for nostalgia's sake. And I quite like the way it sounds."

"Yeah, I... I've always liked Scottish accents," Clara answered in a quiet, subdued voice. The Doctor had told her all that in a matter of fact tone, and she could see his past was, on the surface at least, not something he often dwelled on. She imagined he wouldn't entrust people with his life story very often. Clara felt quite special, but also quite overcome by the profound sadness of his words.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know..."

"That's fine, don't worry. I thought it'd be best if you knew. I mean, if you decide to stay with us. It might perhaps help you understand some of my... shortcomings, I guess, when it comes to Sam. I don't advertise my life very easily, and I'd really rather you didn't..."

"I won't tell a soul, this is private, I understand." They were both quiet for a little while, until the Doctor spoke again, in a soft tone.

"Martha told me..."

"She told you about my mum, that she died." Clara interrupted him.

"Yes. She seemed to think that it would make a difference with Sam. I don't know if it will, or rather if it might. But what I mean is, you don't have to feel compelled to... use your grief or your emotions about your own mum with him, or with me. It would be utterly unfair to ask you that, and I won't."

Clara looked straight into his grey eyes, eyes that she had seen turn blue sometimes. But now they looked almost transparent, as though he was baring his very soul. She could see how scared he was for his son. How much getting things right meant to him. How far he would go. But he wouldn't let his beliefs be destroyed in the process.

"Thank you, that's... Thank you," Clara pondered her answer some more, playing with her empty cup, "I guess it happened so long ago now that I no longer know if what I do, say, or feel has anything to do with her death. I've now spent half my life without her. But it's still so fresh for your son, and he's younger than I was when it happened for me. What... What can you tell me about her? His mum?"

Clara had finally arrived at the question she had wanted to ask all night long. The question about the ghost she was now meant to replace in some small way. She wasn't surprised to see the Doctor back at ruffling his grey curls, but he seemed to have come to the same realisation as her, and looked resigned.

"I met River Song ten years ago at a conference. I'd written a paper on the analysis of bone fragments to determine a relatively precise time of death for very old bodies - don't ask, I was into pathology at the time."

Clara smiled for his sake, knowing the story was hard for him to tell.

"Anyway, we'd barely been together for two months when she up and left without a word or a card or whatever. Fast-forward nine and a half years later and here she was, on my actual doorstep with a young boy looking a hell of a lot like me. Once inside, she told me she was dying and that there was nothing I could do about it and that I had to take care of our son. She could't bear to have him near her in the last stages of her illness and off she went again, back to Alexandria and its precious library. Because books are apparently the only worthy witnesses to our shuffling off this mortal coil. Well, I guess I could talk..." he added, gesturing to the bookcases. He waited for her to comment, and sipped some more tea.

"She just...left? And you're sure that, I mean, I don't want to insult you or..."

"Am I sure that she's dead? I thought it might have indeed been a trick at some point, too. But yes, she died barely two weeks after she'd dropped Sam off, and her cancer had been incurable, I checked all the reports."

"I'm sorry," she said with sincerity, but knowing it didn't mean much. The Doctor shrugged.

"As I said, I barely knew her. But I can't blame her for what she did, for Sam's sake at least."

"You said Sam hated you, earlier."

"He says so, sometimes."

"That's quite a harsh thing to say, especially to someone he's never known until two months ago."

"Well, he does feel like I've abandoned him and his mum to their fates all those years, and that when the time came, I couldn't even save her, genius doctor that I am. So I guess I understand where it's coming from, I would hate myself too."

"But you didn't know about his existence up until two months ago, right?"

"Right, I never knew. But that doesn't mean he didn't."

"What?"

"I guess River told him some stuff about me, he must have asked at some point. And he seemed to know what I looked like, perhaps she'd found some pictures of me to show him, I don't know."

"So your son believes that in the same way that he knew about you all those years...you did too?"

"I guess."

"You guess? And it doesn't bother you that your son believes a lie? No wonder he hates you, if he believes you've never wanted him all those years. Why don't you tell him the truth? Why don't you tell him you didn't know about him? That doesn't make any sense!"

"Because I would rather he hates me, than his dead mother's memory." Clara was struck dumb by his sentence. She didn't know what to say. It seemed like the best reason in the world for him. And she did admire his resilience. And his devotion. She didn't think she'd ever heard something so desperately sad done in the name of a parent's love for one's child. And Sam had only been his child for two months. But this didn't mean he was right, far from it. She could see it would take a while for her to make him see things differently, but she knew what she was meant to do now, she knew what obstacles she was facing. Sam was not the only one who needed her help in this household, and she dearly hoped she'd make a difference.

"Doctor, I don't think you're right about this," she boldly told him. And she could tell it wasn't something that people often dared to say in his face. Or probably needed to say, given what she'd been told about his reputation.

"If I tell him his mum lied to him by implying I knew about him all along, that will make him hate her. And I'm pretty sure that he won't suddenly change his mind about me either."

"You really think he hates you?" she repeated her earlier question.

"I don't know. He's been less... vocal about it, lately. And he doesn't seem to really mind my presence most of the time. We do talk, sometimes. About small things. My work. School stuff. What's for dinner. But he never talks about his mum."

"You should tell him. Tell the truth. It's important for kids, even at that age. He will hate you even more if he finds out later."

"Maybe you're right." Clara knew she hadn't convinced him yet, far from it. He was probably just humouring her. She felt desperately tired, all of a sudden, probably realising all the work it would require to make him see that he was wrong. _Call Clara Oswald, she'll fix all your problems right up_. This time, she couldn't hide her yawn.

"It's late, I'm sorry. Let me call you a cab, I'll pay for it," said the Doctor, rising from his seat.

"No no, it's fine," she called him back from the couch, "I'll take the job. I'll be your au pair, I mean."

"Right," he said, unsure, turning back towards her. He probably didn't see how it related to her not needing a taxi.

"Thanks," he added, surprised that she had accepted, given the turn their conversation had taken in the end.

"Also, would it be possible if I started immediately?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I might commit a triple murder tonight if I head back to my flat. And your guest room bed already looked just about perfect an hour ago. Do you mind if I stay? I can meet Sam tomorrow morning and move my stuff whenever's convenient."

She could see that the Doctor had a hard time reconciling his logical mind with the fact that she'd just agreed to take on a job without having met the main object of said job. She was pretty forward, she had to admit. But she could also see that he knew he didn't have the luxury of time to make a decision.

"Okay."


	2. Chapter 2

He was having a very strange dream. A patient was talking to him about his condition. He looked somewhat like the man with the acoustic neuroma from yesterday morning. He was telling him about this jazz band, living in his head, and the lovely music that they played. He could hear the music, and it wasn't lovely at all, it sounded like a rhythmical beep, like...

His pager. _Shit_.

The blinking light with the surgery ward number also told him it was 4.44. _Again_. The Doctor reacted quickly after that and phoned the hospital. Amy Pond, one of his trainees who was on call that night, answered.

"Doctor, I'm really sorry, but you need to come in right now."

"Right, tell me," he answered, in a voice he hoped wasn't too bleary. He had been sleeping very deeply.

"Gunshot wound to the head, self-inflicted. They're stabilising him in A&amp;E and we'll get him to a scan soon. It looks bad, but his Obs are okay for now. I've paged Martha as well, she's coming."

"Good, I'll be there in 20 minutes, get the patient to the scan as soon as possible." The Doctor hung up, and only then realised the situation. He needed to be at the hospital, Sam would no doubt wake up before he got back, and Clara Oswald was asleep in the guest room. He'd have felt pretty bad about it, but if Clara hadn't been there, he'd have just gone and left a note for his son, apologising but telling him to walk to school on his own. He knew how to get there, and he wasn't a baby. Some parents might have frowned at this and said it was irresponsible, but the Doctor had been in situations a lot worse when he was even younger than Sam. Kids were resourceful and resilient, and he already knew his son definitely was both those things.

But now not only did he have to take into consideration the fact that Sam wouldn't be going to school for the next two weeks, but also that Clara was there. _Shit_. Well, he'd just have to leave them both notes, that was all. But he couldn't help listening to the nagging voice at the back of his head telling him that leaving his son with a virtual stranger was even worse than leaving him all alone. He was probably being paranoid, but as he grabbed a pair of trousers, he realised that in order to concentrate on the patient, he would need to set his mind at ease. So he called Martha.

"Doctor, I know, I'm on my way, I'll be there in ten minutes!" he could hear her walking briskly. She lived quite close to the hospital and had the advantage of youth when it came to waking up in the middle of the night.

"I'll be there shortly as well. Listen... Clara's sleeping here and I just wanted to make really sure that..."

"What do you mean, Clara's sleeping here?" Martha interrupted him in a voice he could only interpret as scandalized. Realising too late how his words might have sounded, he quickly corrected himself.

"I mean, she took the job, and she wanted to start immediately. She was very tired and she's sleeping in the guest room."

"Oh, right," she sounded surprised, but less gobsmacked, at least.

"Yes. So, I'm just leaving her there with Sam, and I was just wondering..."

"You were just wondering if I was quite sure my friend Clara Oswald wasn't secretly an axe-murderer?" she definitely sounded amused now, which slightly irritated the Doctor.

"Well, yes. Kind of, I guess. I know I'm being paranoid, but..."

"He's in safe hands, don't worry. Clara's never had any psychopathic tendencies, I promise. I'll see you at the hospital, Doctor. And I'm glad she took the job, by the way."

"Yeah, me too."

The Doctor quickly finished changing and sat down to write two notes. He finally switched on a light - he hadn't needed any to find clothes in the dark - and thought he saw an orange flash disappearing quickly in the garden when he looked through the window. He couldn't be sure if it was a fox or just a reflection. Although he knew he didn't have much time to think about his words, he tried to be as exhaustive as possible in his notes to Samuel and Clara. He slid them both under their respective doors, thinking they would be more likely to find them there than downstairs, and quickly and quietly exited the house to reach his car and the hospital. Thankfully, the streets were still pretty empty at five in the morning, and he arrived in less than fifteen minutes.

He met Martha in A&amp;E. She had apparently arrived only a few minutes earlier, but still had some new information.

"Amy took him for a scan, we should have the results soon."

"What more can you tell me about the patient?"

"Twelve year old boy..."

"Wait, what?" he interrupted her. "Are we talking about the same patient? The self-inflicted gunshot wound?"

"Yes, he shot himself in the head."

"Jesus. Sorry, continue," it wasn't the first time the Doctor had dealt with such cases, and he often treated young children, but it was the first time since Samuel had come into his life. Martha seemed aware of that fact as well.

"The bullet entered laterally in the right frontal area and exited out the right side of the forehead. He briefly regained consciousness in A&amp;E, but it wasn't possible to ascertain his lucidity."

In the lift that took them to the ITU and the scans, the Doctor couldn't help but wonder what could have gone through the mind of a twelve year old for him to want to shoot himself. And how the hell did he manage to get ahold of a gun?

"Do we know what happened?" he asked Martha.

"I don't know the whole story. The mother brought him, she'll be waiting for us to speak to her once we've seen the results of the scan."

"Right."

Forcing himself not to think about the small boy sleeping peacefully - he hoped - at home, he walked quickly to find out about the CT scan. The images were just loading on the screen when he got in the room with Martha. Amy was anxiously waiting for them both. She wasn't used to crises like these yet.

"Morning, Doctor. I'm sorry, I didn't page Rory, I didn't know if..."

"No, let him sleep. We'll need someone well rested for this afternoon. Three of us should be enough for now. Right, Martha, tell me what you see."

"We can see the track left by the bullet. It passed through the front right side of the skull and apparently nicked the right frontal lobe."

"Good. So, Amy, what do we do?" he asked, wanting to reassure his trainee by showing her there were always precise steps to follow, even in emergency situations like these.

"We... We operate. To debride and irrigate the wound, then we reconstruct the skull," she answered in a calmer voice.

"Exactly, simple. It's a good thing the bullet got out. More blood, but less damage. Now, Martha: you go prep the patient for the operation. Amy: you come with me to talk to the mother." Martha nodded and left, and the Doctor and Amy walked to the ITU waiting room. The Doctor was glad to see that his trainee was gradually gaining back her confidence. He knew she felt less sure of herself when Rory wasn't there, but he also knew that she had to learn how to rely on her own opinions more. She was very capable after all.

Now that he had seen the scans and knew what had to be done in surgery, the Doctor also felt more at ease. The patient was a patient first and a young boy second, but he still needed to explain the operation to the likely distraught mother. At first, he thought she hadn't reached the waiting room yet. But when he called out her name, a blonde woman stood up. The Doctor was surprised to see how composed she looked. She was the opposite of the weeping and terrified mother he had expected.

"Mrs Howard?" he checked a second time, just to be sure.

"You're one of Timothy's doctors?" she asked in a surprisingly calm voice.

"Yes, I'm the neurosurgeon who will be operating on your son, and this is my surgical trainee Amelia Pond. Can we talk for a few minutes? We need to tell you about the surgery."

"Do I have to sign something?"

The Doctor was reminded of his own reaction when he had picked up Sam at the school yesterday. He remembered asking the same question to the head teacher. But he also remembered how he had made sure that his son was alright before anything else.

"This is a serious operation, Mrs Howard. Perhaps you would like to sit down?"

"I'm fine where I am. Now you tell me what you need to do," she told him resolutely.

"We have to operate on your son's head to remove the tissues damaged by the bullet so that the wound can heal properly. That's called debridement. We're also going to have to reconstruct his skull. Like a puzzle, really, when you think about it in simple terms. Thankfully, the bullet didn't do too much damage, and it should be a rather simple surgery. His levels are very good at the moment and we're optimistic, but it is unfortunately too soon to know how he will be when he wakes up," the Doctor explained calmly and slowly, seeing that the woman was nodding every few seconds. He couldn't be sure that she understood everything, but he hoped she knew they would do everything in their power to help her son.

"How long will all of that take?" she finally asked.

The Doctor didn't need to look at Amy to know that she was startled by the question. But he tried to remain as impassive as he could.

"It will depend on the damage done to the dural and to his skull, but probably a few hours."

"Oh, I see. I will wait here, then."

They then left her, telling her that they would come right after the surgery to talk to her, and took the lift up to the surgical theatres. As he had anticipated, Amy barely waited until the metallic doors were closed to voice her surprise.

"What the hell was that? She didn't ask us anything about her son! And she didn't tell us what happened!" the Doctor had forgotten how explosive his trainee could be when she felt vindicated.

"She's probably in shock, we can't judge her. And it wasn't our business to ask her about the gun. We need to focus on the patient. But I'm sure the police will be very curious soon enough and she'll definitely have to answer to them. And the boy as well, when he wakes up," he added, sadly.

"You're confident that he will wake up?" Amy asked as the doors were opening on the surgical ward.

The Doctor pondered his answer while they were walking, knowing that he had to be realistic for both his trainee's sake and his.

"It's a bit too early to be certain about that, but I'd say so. Lucky the boy was right handed." Seeing the lack of reaction - or disinterest, more likely - on his trainee's face, he added:

"Think about it. The same angle from the left side would have surely damaged his speech centre, it would have taken him months if not years to recover."

"He might still lose some of his memories."

"Yeah."

"Or be a vegetable." The Doctor let that pass, knowing that the young woman needed to envision all the possible scenarios. He made the same considerations every time, but he no longer needed to voice them out loud, after all these years.

"Go scrub in, you should both be there with Martha for this. It'll be good for your training, since it is unfortunately a rather common injury. But for once at least, the odds are pretty good. I'll go talk to the anaesthesiologist."

Amy nodded and left, while the Doctor took a few precious seconds to clear his mind one last time before the surgery. He'd often operated on far less hours of sleep and he knew that he was rested enough, but it still took him longer than usual to feel focused enough to go and do his job.

Back at the house, the sun had been up for a little while when Clara finally woke up. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was, but the comfortable pillows and the quiet house didn't help her find the will to get up. She knew it was the polite thing to do, especially since she could see on her phone that it was almost 9.30. She didn't regret the decision she'd made last night to stay and take on the au pair job. And she certainly hoped the Doctor hadn't changed his mind now that he'd had several hours of sleep to think about it some more. Clara was curious about meeting his son but too comfortable to go anywhere yet. She hadn't felt this well-rested in a long while.

But she had a job, now, after all. She wasn't really a guest in this house, and it was time she started to behave accordingly. Probably. She sat up with her back against the white, wooden headboard and observed the room in the daylight. It was dominantly white, with wooden furniture and the ever-present bookcases. She would have more than enough room to move her stuff, which only consisted in more books, clothes, pictures and various knickknacks she'd accumulated in her travels the last few years. She had rented pre-furnished flats ever since she'd arrived in London for university. It was the first time she had such a huge bed she could call her own. And an en suite bathroom. Now that was a luxury perk she knew she would have a hard time letting go.

Clara finally got out of bed, and thought that it would be nice to soon have some clean clothes she could change into. She hoped she'd get the time to clear the flat in Kentish Town sometime during the day. She could pack everything she owned in one big suitcase. But first, she thought it might be a good idea to finally meet the reason she was here in the first place. Once she had opened the blinds and admired the peaceful view onto the neighbourhood roofs and the back garden, she finally saw the note on the floor. She picked it up quickly.

"_I'm really sorry, but I had to go to the hospital for an emergency. Help yourself to anything in the house whilst I'm gone. I should hopefully be back before lunch and will call you if there's any change. Sam will probably sleep until nine since he doesn't have school. Tell him to take some paracetamol if his hand is still hurting, he knows where it is. Don't hesitate to call the surgery ward if there is any problem. Hope you had a good night sleep. Sorry again for dropping this on you so soon. The Doctor._"

Right, her workday had already started, then. And Sam was perhaps already awake. She quickly freshened up in the bathroom, changed back into the clothes she had worn yesterday - glad to see that at least they weren't too creased - and made her way quietly downstairs. She saw that the Doctor's son bedroom door was still closed on the way, but she checked all the rooms just in case. The house was almost eerily quiet. There rarely seemed to be any car driving outside. Looking out from the kitchen window, she once again saw the blue houseboat on the canal. She was quite intrigued by it, and hoped she'd get the opportunity to see the inside of it, one of these days.

She lingered for a while in the living room, glancing at the book titles on the shelves and wondering if she should pick one up to read whilst she waited for Samuel to come down - many seemed quite tempting, after all - but she finally settled on making tea. She had observed the Doctor yesterday and knew where most things were kept in the kitchen, and was glad to see that the fridge and cupboards were well-stocked. They wouldn't die of hunger in the Doctor's absence at least, she thought with a smile.

Just as Clara sat down with her tea fixed the way she liked it, she heard soft footsteps coming downstairs. The boy entered the kitchen reading a sheet of paper that was obscuring his face. Clara guessed the Doctor had left him a note, too. When he finally lowered it, she could see that he wasn't surprised to see her sitting there.

"You're Clara?" he said in a quiet, but clear voice.

"Yes, that's me," she answered with a smile.

"Martha's friend?"

Clara guessed that it was how the Doctor had introduced her to him in his note, and nodded.

"Have you met her?" she asked him, seeing that he didn't look mistrustful but might want more details.

"I saw her at the hospital. And she came here a few times," he told her simply.

They stared at each other silently and Clara couldn't help but blurt out: "You do look a lot like your dad."

Samuel shrugged almost imperceptibly at her words, but didn't comment.

She remembered the Doctor telling her last night that he had been startled to see how much the boy looked like him when he had met him for the first time, and she now understood why. He had the same thin and long figure. The same fine features and narrow face. The same grey eyes. He also had light brown curly hair tousled to an extent that only a nine-year old boy waking up could apparently achieve and was wearing stripy pyjamas that seemed to have become a bit too short for him at the hands and feet, as though they had shrunk. Clara thought he presented quite a funny picture, for a child with such serious eyes.

The boy opened the fridge and set about preparing his own breakfast, not minding that Clara was there. He apparently didn't fell threatened by her, and the fact that a virtual stranger had greeted him at breakfast didn't seem to bother him.

"Do you need any help?" Clara asked, seeing him reach inside on tiptoes for the raspberry jam.

"I'm fine."

Clara also remembered that the Doctor had told her that Sam was only specific about his breakfast, and he indeed clearly was. Once he had gotten everything ready and to his liking, he sat at the kitchen bar, leaving a seat vacant between them. He looked at the empty stool for a few seconds, and she could see that he almost wanted to ask her something, probably about his dad. He had been using his left hand to pour his orange juice and the milk in his Coco Pops. But he had been able to spread the jam on his toast holding the knife in his right hand, so she decided not to comment just yet and let him have breakfast in peace. He didn't seem to be in pain.

Clara thought she might as well have breakfast too, so she had some buttered toasts. Samuel once again didn't comment, and ate his food slowly. She observed him quietly and waited until he had finished to speak again.

"Did your dad tell you when he was coming home in his note?"

"He said before lunch."

"Does he often do that? Leave you alone during the night when there's an emergency at the hospital?"

"It's only the second time. And I don't mind being alone." Clara didn't know if he was defending his father's actions or was genuinely okay with being on his own. Given his behaviour, Clara was tempted to weigh in favour of the latter.

She was prevented from asking him about his hand by the sound of the front door opening. Sam sat a little straighter in his seat, looking slightly expectant but trying to downplay it, probably because of Clara. The Doctor came in the kitchen, visibly surprised to see them both in the same room. His ruffled hair almost rivalled his son's and Clara could tell that the night had been long for him - or short, depending on how you looked at things.

"Oh, good. You're both up," he said, walking towards them. He then gently laid both his hands on his son's head and stroked his hair. From the way Sam stiffened at first, she could tell that it wasn't something the Doctor often did. But the boy relaxed quickly, and the Doctor eventually removed his hands. To Clara, it looked as though he had wanted to check that his son's head was still intact, in some strange way.

"Did you sleep well? I didn't wake you up when I left, I hope," he asked, turning in her direction.

"No, don't worry. I didn't hear a thing, and I slept very well, thanks again for letting me stay."

"You're welcome."

"Do you want some tea? The water should still be warm," Clara said, standing up.

"Oh, yeah, thanks. That would be lovely," the Doctor answered, sitting in the vacant seat next to his son with a relieved sigh.

"How's your hand?" he asked in a quiet voice, not waiting for his son's answer to gently inspect his right hand.

"It's okay, it doesn't hurt like yesterday," the boy answered passively.

"Wiggle your fingers...good. Now squeeze my hand."

She heard Sam wince when he tried to grip the Doctor's hand.

"We should get some x-rays at the hospital to make sure everything's fine," the Doctor said resolutely.

"But you said yesterday that it wasn't broken."

Clara put a cup of tea in front of the Doctor and observed his reaction to his son's words surreptitiously. But she could tell he'd already taken his decision on the matter. She was pretty sure the boy's hand would be fine, but he was a doctor, after all.

"I know, and there's probably nothing broken, but I want to make sure."

"Why?" insisted the boy.

"Because it's important. Go get changed and we'll leave now." Samuel didn't look happy, but he did as he was told and left the kitchen. Clara had fixed herself a second cup of tea and stood with her back against the cabinets, facing the Doctor.

"Are you okay?" she eventually asked him, seeing that he wasn't speaking but wouldn't move from his seat either.

He looked startled by her question, as though he believed she had asked the wrong person. He slid his fingers through his hair, laid his elbows on the table, and seemed to be pondering his words.

"Yeah. The surgery went well, and faster than expected." Clara felt tempted to tell him that he hadn't answered her question, but instead asked him another.

"What was it?"

"What?"

"The operation. What was it?"

"Debridement. For a gunshot wound to the head." The Doctor drank some tea, probably thinking that she was done with her questions. But she wasn't.

"Who was the patient?"

"What does it matter?"

"I guess I'm just curious about your job, that's all. Martha often speaks of her patients," Clara defended herself, hoping that he would feel inclined to share more. The Doctor sighed, and set his cup on the table, taking his time to answer once more. She felt a bit cruel, pressing him with questions like that when he was visibly exhausted, but she thought she'd read something in the way that he'd insisted on Samuel's x-ray, and she wanted to make sure.

"It was a twelve year old child, a boy. The bullet nicked his right frontal lobe and damaged his skull, but he should make a full recovery," he finally told her. She understood now why he'd felt compelled to touch his son's head when he had arrived. But she was still missing something.

"Who shot him?" she pressed.

"No one, he shot himself," he answered immediately this time, looking straight into her eyes.

There it was, then. She had all her answers. And she also knew that she wouldn't try to dissuade him from taking his son to the hospital to have his hand checked out. It wouldn't be fair of her and she understood now why he felt he needed to do it. But she could at least try to make things a bit easier for him.

"That's terrible, the surgery must have been nerve-wracking. Do you have to head back to the hospital? And stay once Sam will have had his x-ray?"

"No, I said I would go back to my old schedule and take a night shift tomorrow, so I can take it easy today. But I might be called back when the patient wakes up from the surgery if there's a problem."

"Then why don't you rest a little before taking Sam? You look like you need it," she risked telling him.

"I'm used to functioning on little sleep, and I actually slept pretty well last night up until they paged me. I'll be fine." Clara had forgotten that he could be stubborn. But then, so was she.

"I had just started talking to your son before you arrived. And you were right when you told me that he wasn't speaking much. I wouldn't mind trying a little harder with him now, before you left for the hospital." Clara wasn't entirely lying about that, she _did_ want to talk some more to Samuel, and had in fact very precise things she had just learnt that she wanted to tell him, but the Doctor didn't need to know that she had an ulterior motive which concerned him.

"Oh, right. I'm sorry, I just dropped Sam on you and you barely even had the time to speak with him."

"It's fine, don't worry."

"You know, if... I mean, if you changed your mind about the whole au pair thing, I would understand. I really left you in the lurch this morning, and Sam can be..."

"Don't be daft, I haven't changed my mind. And your son seems like a great kid, a smart kid. It's alright if he's a bit reserved or shy, it'll just take me a little longer to know him, that's all. It's amazing how much he looks like you, by the way."

The doctor smiled ruefully, but she could tell that her words had touched him. He rubbed his stubbly cheeks and seemed to make up his mind.

"Well, I guess I could at least shower and shave, you're right. It'll give you a little time to speak with Sam."

Clara nodded and smiled gratefully. The Doctor stood up, finished his tea and left the kitchen. Clara could tell from his slow movements that a nap wouldn't have gone amiss, but that probably would have been pushing it. It was only her first day, after all. She still had room for improvement. She spent a few minutes putting things away or in the dishwasher, knowing that it wasn't really her job but wanting to keep busy until Samuel reappeared. She didn't have to wait very long, as the boy entered the kitchen a few minutes later, frowning.

"Your dad's taking a shower before you leave," Clara told him.

"Right," he answered in a tone reminiscent of the Doctor. Just as he was about to presumably walk back upstairs to his bedroom, she called after him.

"Can we talk for a minute?"

Samuel didn't seem too thrilled about this prospect, but he followed her to the living room and sat on an armchair. Clara selected once again to sit on the couch, remembering from last night how comfortable it was. And she also didn't want to sit too close to the boy and spook him.

"Did your dad tell you in his note that I might be staying here for a little while?" she eventually asked, seeing that Sam would definitely not be the one who would start the conversation.

"Yes," he answered simply.

"Are you okay with that?" The boy shrugged, and didn't comment. Clara decided she needed a different angle of approach.

"Your dad said you were doing pretty good at school, but if you ever need help with your homework or anything, you can ask me."

Sam kept quiet, but she could tell he was pleased by her comment, even though he was trying to hide it. For such a young boy, he could be very hard to read. And Clara hoped he would grow up to be less withdrawn than his dad.

"I'll actually have to do some homework of my own, I'm writing my thesis for university." Clara wasn't sure if he knew what a thesis was, but he surprised her by asking a question.

"What is it about?"

"It's about children literature from the early 20th Century. Books like _Winnie the Pooh_, _Peter Pan_, and the like," she answered him, glad that he was showing interest in something. "Have you read them?" He shrugged once again, but eventually spoke up.

"I prefer history books. About the Incas or Ancient Egypt, things like that." Clara wasn't surprised, given what she knew about his mum. But she thought it wasn't the right time to mention her yet.

"I actually might need your help with my thesis. Maybe I'll ask you for your opinion on some books I have to write about, would that be okay?"

He started shrugging once more but eventually nodded once. She could tell that the idea appealed to him a little.

"Thanks, that's great. That would help me a lot. It's not always easy talking about children literature when you're a grown up."

"You don't have children?" Clara was surprised by his question, but she guessed that for a nine year old, she might look like a mum. She was 27, after all. Old enough to have her own family. The thought made her pensive, but she still answered Samuel with a smile.

"No, I don't have children. Maybe one day." Fearing that she wouldn't have the time to tell him everything she had planned before the Doctor came down, Clara changed the subject once more.

"Does your dad talk to you about his job, sometimes?"

"I know he's a surgeon. He operates on people's heads at the hospital."

"It sounds like a tough job. But my friend Martha told me he was very good at it," the boy didn't react, but he was still showing some interest in the discussion at least.

"Does he ever tell you about his patients?" she pressed.

"No, not really. He just talks about it a little when he has to go back to the hospital to do an operation after school."

"He was actually just telling me about his patient from this morning, the emergency. It was a boy, just a little older than you."

"What happened to him?" Clara could see that she had finally his full attention.

"He got shot, and the bullet went through his head," she told him, thinking that he didn't need to know about the self-inflicted part. "Your dad had to operate to fix it."

"He's going to be okay?"

"Yes, your father believes so. But I think it must have been hard for him to operate on a child. And the boy's parents were probably very worried about him."

"Yeah," Samuel agreed, thoughtful.

The Doctor came down soon after that, clean shaven and with his hair still wet from the shower. Clara could see that he at least looked a bit better than when he had arrived.

"You're ready to go, Sam?"

"Yes," the boy answered, getting on his feet promptly. His enthusiasm seemed to surprise his father.

"By the way, will Martha be there?" asked Clara innocently.

"Yes, her shift should finish later tonight."

"Do you think she might have a little time to talk to me? I haven't seen her in a while. I won't bother her for very long or take her away from patients, don't worry."

"Sure, you can come with us if you want."

"And it might be good for me to see where you work, just in case."

"You're right. Are you ready to go now, or...?"

"Yes, I'll just grab my bag," she answered, smiling, glad to see that her plan had worked. She had always meant to come with them, but the Doctor didn't need to know that. She wanted to know how he would interact with his son at his workplace. Seeing Martha would be an added bonus. And yes, okay, she was also delaying the moment when she would need to go back to her flat and pack.

The Doctor thought that Sam was livelier than usual in the car. He guessed Clara's presence intrigued him, but he didn't seem to dislike her, at least. He wondered what they had talked about this morning, and if Clara had managed to get anything out of him. She hadn't run away from the challenge his son presented yet, so that was a positive thing. The shower had helped him clear his mind, but he wasn't reconsidering his decision about the x-ray. He needed to make sure nothing was wrong, that's what any parent would do.

He was glad that the operation this morning had gone so smoothly, and he felt more confident than before about the boy's chances to pull through. The mother had been a bit more receptive when Amy and him had gone to talk to her after the four-hour long surgery, but she was still behaving strangely. The Doctor was afraid that if it was indeed shock, that would delay her reaction and worsen its scope. He hoped she wouldn't be bothered by the police before her son regained consciousness. But he would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't curious about what had happened for him to feel the need to put a gun to his head.

They all took the lift to reach radiology since Clara had told him she would find Martha afterwards. The Doctor could tell that Sam was a bit nervous. He kept shuffling his feet and looking in his direction as if he wanted to ask him something, but couldn't find the right words - or rather, couldn't find the courage to voice them. Once they got out, the Doctor chose to speak up first, for once, and risk asking a question.

"Sam, are you alright? Are you scared about the x-ray?"

"Is it the thing where you have to lie down inside a box without moving?" blurted out the young boy in a small voice. The Doctor stopped walking, and faced his son fully.

"No, the box one is called an MRI. It's not what you're going to have. You're going to be standing in a room and someone will ask you to hold your hand in a few different ways while they're taking a special kind of picture with a machine. It's very simple and very quick." Sam nodded, but didn't seem quite convinced yet.

"I can be in the room with you if you like, but not right next to you because it can be a bit dangerous to get pictured too many times," the Doctor added.

"Okay, yeah."

"I'll be there then, and I'll make sure everything's fine." He felt bad for not having anticipated that his son might be apprehensive. He should have explained what an x-ray entailed before they got to the hospital.

"Once the picture is taken, will you let me see it, Sam? I'm sure an x-ray of a hand must be pretty great, especially when it's your own hand," said Clara, who had remained silent during the whole exchange until then.

"Sure. How long will that take? To get the special picture?" Sam had started walking once more, and he seemed more sure of himself.

"Taking the picture will only take a few minutes. And if they're not too busy, we'll just have to wait for about half an hour to get the results."

The Doctor had asked radiology in advance if they had some vacant spot for him during the day, and they had told him that around noon would be the best time. He didn't want to rush an exam that was probably unnecessary in the first place if other patients were waiting, but he knew many of the technicians and they didn't mind doing him a favour. It would have been a different matter if he had had to wait for a radiologist to look at the films afterwards, but he felt confident he could interpret the results without any help.

Clara waited for them outside when they went to get the x-rays. Sam felt visibly better having the Doctor with him during the procedure, and he did everything the technician asked him to without complaining once. When it was done, he explained to his son how the film would be developed. Sam didn't speak, but he seemed interested in the process. He eventually sat down next to Clara, and the Doctor heard her ask him to recount everything that had happened during the x-ray. Sam hesitated for a second, but then told her in his own words what it had felt like. He was glad to hear that he no longer seemed scared and marvelled at Clara's ability to get him to speak. He'd definitely have to thank her for that. And maybe ask her for some advice.

Whilst they were waiting, the Doctor had someone bring him down Timothy Howard's file. Since he was at the hospital, he wanted to take the opportunity to review the latest results. He hadn't woken up yet, but it wasn't surprising, and his vitals were still holding strong.

The technician then signalled that the films were ready, and handed him a cardboard folder. The Doctor thanked him and Sam and Clara followed him to an exam room he knew would be empty at this hour. He walked towards one of the many viewing boxes and placed the x-rays against the glass. He observed them closely for a minute, and eventually exclaimed:

"Good, nothing's broken."

"That's great," said Clara.

The viewing box was a bit high for Sam, but the Doctor could tell that he wanted to see the x-rays more closely. He got a rolling stool from behind him and grabbed Sam under his shoulders to help him stand on it. He hadn't thought about how his son would react, but he didn't seem to mind.

"Here are where the most likely fractures would have been," he started pointing out, "On the carpals, those are the bones of your wrist, and you actually got eight different ones. On the metacarpals, the five bones that make the palm of your hands. Or on the phalanges, the small bones of your fingers." Sam had followed all his descriptions closely, and seemed quite captivated.

"So everything's fine?"

"Yes, your hand is perfectly fine. The pain will surely go away in a few days, but you can put some ice on it again or take some paracetamol if it bothers you."

"Can I keep them? The pictures?"

"Yes, of course, they're yours. I even got one of those viewing boxes at home in my office if you want to look at them some more."

"Cool." That was the first time he'd heard his son utter that word. The Doctor hadn't for the life of him imagined that he would use it to talk about x-rays.

"Do you have the x-rays of your patient? The boy who got shot in the head?" asked Clara, who was standing right behind them.

The Doctor was startled by her unexpected question, and wondered why she had felt it necessary to ask it in front of his son. But when he turned back towards Sam, he could see that he knew what Clara was talking about. And he looked just as expectant and excited as for his own x-rays. The Doctor hesitated. Not only wouldn't it be very professional of him to show them one of his patient's results, but he also had a hard time believing that it would be beneficial for his son to see them. So he asked him, realising that it was indeed a good way to make him talk and voice his feelings.

"You're sure you want to see that, Sam?" The boy nodded. Since he'd never seen his son taking an interest in his job until now, he relented, and went to get the films from his patient's file, which he had left on a table.

"Right. This is called a CT scan. It is actually a series of x-rays of the head taken from different directions, from the base of the skull to the top. That's why you've got so many images of the brain." Sam looked at him, waiting patiently for him to explain what he was seeing, just like he had done for his hand. He had never seen that look in his son's eyes, and he was completely thrown for a few seconds.

"The brain has four lobes: the frontal lobe, the parietal lobe, the temporal lobe, and the occipital lobe," he explained, pointing them out. "In this case, the bullet entered here, on the right side of his head and exited there, on the forehead. As you can see, it damaged his right frontal lobe a little, it's not smooth on the image like on the other side."

"So what did you do?"

"We had to clean the damage done by the bullet, to make sure he wouldn't get an infection. It's just like any other wound. We also had to repair his skull. It's the bone structure that protects the brain. And it can be broken too, like the other bones of your body. We took the small pieces that had been broken off and we rebuilt it, exactly like a puzzle."

"And he's going to be okay? The boy?"

"I really hope so, yeah."

Samuel was fascinated. And the Doctor was similarly fascinated to see wonder and amazement in his eyes. He looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but couldn't decide where to start.

"In Ancient Egypt, they would take out the brain when they mummified bodies. They used a hook to get it out through the nose," Sam said in a serious tone.

The Doctor wasn't taken aback by his comment, but Clara clearly was. Perhaps she hadn't known this little titbit about the Egyptians. As far as he was concerned, he knew he wouldn't be easily grossed out by anything a nine year old would say.

"Yes, they would take out the brain because they thought it wasn't useful like the heart, which they kept. They believed our thoughts and feelings came from there, and not the brain."

"I read that, you're right!" the boy looked thrilled that the Doctor knew something about one of his favourite subjects.

"They were wrong, obviously. Not only is the brain the actual source of all our feelings, memories, and thoughts, it's also the most clever organ we have."

"Really?"

"It's the only part of our body that doesn't feel pain. Sometimes, during an operation of the brain, we have to make sure not to damage an important area. Like the ones that control speech or movement. So we need to poke them very gently to see how the patient reacts. But it doesn't ever hurt."

"I didn't know that. It's really smart, then." Sam observed the CT scan some more, and finally uttered, "I'm hungry. Can we go get some lunch?"

The Doctor smiled genuinely and nodded. "Yeah, let's go and get something to eat, I'm hungry too." It was already one o'clock, and the Doctor realised that he hadn't eaten anything in a while.

They walked out together, Clara slowly trailing behind them. The Doctor had thought he would be angry at her for bringing up the subject of his patient after having apparently been discussing it with his son without his knowledge, but he realised that he wouldn't have gotten to witness Sam's fascinated reaction if she hadn't done it.

"Let's go and see Martha, first. I'm sure she'll enjoy taking a break to speak with you. And you can join us in the cafeteria afterwards if you want," the Doctor told Clara as they made their way once more to the lift.

"Can we take the stairs?" asked Sam.

"Sure, why not, it's only one floor," the Doctor conceded.

Once they had reached the surgery ward, the Doctor had Donna page Martha. As usual, the red haired woman tried to make conversation with Samuel. But for once, he was a little less shy around her, and even answered a few of her questions. The Doctor tried not to show his surprise and greeted Martha with a small smile when she arrived. She indeed looked in need of a break.

"Clara, it's great to see you! You too, Sam. So, no cast on your hand, I see?" Sam shook his head, but showed her the cardboard folder holding his x-rays.

"No, but I can keep the pictures, so that's alright."

"That's nice! Oh, by the way Doctor, Timothy just came round. His obs are okay and his GCS is at 12. He spoke a little and asked for his mum. Everything looks good."

"Perfect, I'll go have lunch with Sam and leave you and Clara alone. I'll check on him afterwards just to make sure. You managed to get Amy to leave, eventually?"

"Yes, she wanted to stay once Rory had arrived, but I persuaded her that sleeping was more important and that she'd be more useful to us rested tonight."

"Good. Come and join us for coffee later on if you want. And we can go and pick up your stuff from your flat afterwards Clara, since the car's here."

"Oh, right. Thanks." Clara looked as though she had completely forgotten about the fact that she was still wearing yesterday's clothes and that she would need to empty her old place.

The Doctor and Sam took the stairs once again to reach the cafeteria, and Clara found herself alone with Martha, who steered her towards a quieter place where they could talk.

"So, seems like your new job is going great," commented Martha.

Clara had a hard time focusing on her friend's words. She was still slightly baffled by the results of her plan. She hadn't anticipated that the young patient's x-ray would trigger such a reaction in Sam. She had expected the Doctor's anger, and indeed the look he had directed at her when she'd asked to see the films was still painful to remember, but she hadn't thought that his son would be so fascinated. Clara was a bit worried by his obsession with gruesome details from Ancient Egypt, but the Doctor hadn't looked surprised. And she hadn't been in the presence of nine year old boys in a while, she knew they could be captivated by the weirdest things.

She'd also been amazed by the Doctor's behaviour. He was clearly a different person here than at home. He wasn't awkward or unsure or nervous. He was clear and smart and genuine. He was the amazing doctor Martha had been telling her about. No wonder his son had been so enthralled by everything he'd had to say. He could probably make any subject riveting if he so wished.

"Clara, you're alright?"

"Yes, sorry. I'm fine. I was just... you were right. About the Doctor. He's wonderful."

"I know. I have to say though, I was a bit surprised when he told me you'd taken on the job so quickly. I even envisioned something else for a moment."

"What do you mean?" Clara asked, frowning.

"He called me early this morning, when we got paged for the emergency. He wanted to make sure it would be alright leaving you with Sam," Martha started telling her.

Clara was surprised at first, but then realised it made sense. The Doctor was very careful when it came to his son, after all.

"And?"

"The way he said it, I don't know. Remember I'd just woken up and it was silly o'clock in the morning, but he told me you were sleeping there and I thought...well, that you'd slept with him, basically."

"What?" but Clara wasn't as horrified as she probably should have been, and Martha wasn't one of her best friends for no reason, and she perceived it.

"That's all you have to say? Wait, is there something I should know about you two? He's my boss, Clara!"

"Relax, nothing happened," she told her in a calm voice.

"And nothing _is_ going to happen, right? I practically _gave_ you this job," Martha emphasized.

"I said nothing happened! I've just taken on the job, for heaven's sake." Martha sighed, and didn't press her, but Clara could tell that she hadn't been fooled by her non-answer on the matter.

"So come on, I haven't seen you in a while, speak to me. How are you?" Clara asked in a bright tone Martha was familiar with and couldn't resist.

They spent the next few minutes enjoying each other's company and planning an evening at the pub in the near future. Clara asked her about Mickey, and Martha managed to broach the subject of her thesis without irritating her in the process. They decided they would join the Doctor and Sam at the cafeteria after Martha had told the red haired receptionist to page her if someone named Rory came looking for her.

Clara found Sam in a gloomier mood. She guessed the Doctor had been talking about a less tantalising subject. She knew their relationship couldn't be fixed by a mere x-ray, after all. But Sam's behaviour had been promising. There was an end to that particular tunnel, and she knew she would be there to help them no matter what.

They sat down at the table and had a quiet lunch. Martha spoke to the Doctor about some of their patients, and Clara tried finding a subject of conversation with Sam but it was no use, he had retracted back into his shell. She would have to try again later. Just as they were about to go and get some coffee, a young man with blonde hair and a large nose came running in their direction. He was out of breath and anxious.

"Oh good, you're there as well Doctor," he managed to utter.

"Rory, calm down, what is it?" asked Martha, already standing up.

"It's Timothy, he developed a bad headache and he had a small fit. His GCS has gone off a bit. The crash team intubated him."

"Did you get him to a CT scan?" asked the Doctor calmly.

"Not yet, I was waiting for you or Martha's opinion."

"Do that, right now," he ordered. "Martha, go and talk to the mother. Tell her we're going to have to operate again."

"Are you certain it's a clot?"

"Yes. Explain it to her then go scrub in, I'll see you in theatre."

Rory and Martha left quickly, and the Doctor turned back towards Sam and Clara, who had been observing the proceedings attentively. Clara saw that he was more serene than the two other surgeons and probably already focused on his surgery. But he still took the time to speak to them.

"What happened?" asked Sam, who had apparently forgotten that he was sulking.

"I'm certain it is a post-operative extradural. That means there is a bleed in his brain. It happens often, unfortunately, after that kind of surgery. I'm going to have to go and operate, and I'm sorry I have to leave you again. Clara, do you want my car keys to drive home or do you prefer taking a cab?"

"I want to stay!" the boy said in a louder voice than Clara and the Doctor had expected.

"Sam, it's probably going to take a few hours, and I'm sure you and Clara..."

"I want to be there," he added in a quieter tone, "Please?"

Clara could tell it wasn't a word the boy used often, and that the Doctor would have a hard time refusing now. So she decided to help him out, knowing that he needed to be somewhere else.

"It's alright, we can stay. I don't mind, Doctor."

"Are you sure? I'll be a while, and there's not much to do here..."

"Yes, I'm sure. And we'll find something to do, don't worry."

He looked at them both for a few seconds, making sure that he wasn't making a mistake, and Clara tried not to press him in his decision.

"Right, okay. I'll have Donna keep you informed. Go to her if you need anything, she can reach me even when I'm in theatre."

Although Clara tried to refuse, he left her money for some food or to take a taxi home if they changed their minds. She wished him good luck, and he finally left them, walking away briskly. She turned back towards Sam and saw that he looked determined to stay glued to his chair until his father came back.

"Well, I'm going to get some tea. Do you want anything?" Clara asked. The boy shook his head. The next few hours were going to be long then, she thought.

They mainly spent the time in the cafeteria, which actually was one of the quietest places in the hospital. They had gone to see Donna after a while, who told them the Doctor was still in surgery, but gave Sam some sheets of paper and pencils. He then set about copying his x-rays carefully. Clara had attempted to engage him in a discussion, but he looked intent on his drawing, even though he was working slowly because of his injured hand. She thought it best to leave him be and thus decided to take the time to call the renting agency to tell them she was leaving her flat, and inform her roommates via voicemail (since obviously none of them picked up). She hoped she'd still have time to go by the flat tonight to pick up some of her stuff - she didn't relish the prospect of spending another day in those clothes.

Around four o'clock, she got the boy to eat something. She also tried to persuade him to go for a little walk outside, but he was as determined as ever to wait patiently. She only managed to get him to move to ask Donna for some more blank sheets. Probably taking pity of her, the receptionist also gave her some crosswords. Clara had never really liked them, but for the next couple of hours she learned to enjoy them out of necessity. She was contemplating calling a distant relative when the young surgeon with the big nose reappeared.

"Rory, right?" Clara asked.

"Yes, I'm one of the Doctor's surgical trainees. He told me to come down to tell you that the surgery's almost done, they should be closing him soon."

"Did it go okay?" asked Samuel, who for all his resolution, looked like he might soon be betrayed by his own body and fall asleep.

"Yes, we found the haemorrhage and stopped the bleeding in time."

"So the boy's going to be alright now?" Sam insisted.

"I think so, yeah. Your dad's very very good at what he does. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a shift waiting for me in A&amp;E. The Doctor should be there in less than an hour."

Sam looked happy about this prospect, but once again he wouldn't let Clara see it too clearly. She hoped the boy would learn that it was okay to show his feelings concerning his father around other people. But for that, the boy would also need to accept the fact that the Doctor was important to him, and that he cared about him. And it was probably still a bit too soon for that.

Whilst they waited for the Doctor to come down, Clara looked more closely at his drawings. She was amazed at the progress he'd made in the afternoon. She hadn't been keeping a close eye on what he was doing, but it was clear now that he'd been slowly developing a way to accurately copy his hand x-rays on paper. He blushed ever so slightly when she told him how good his drawings were, and that he should definitely show them to his dad.

The Doctor walked in the mostly vacated cafeteria about half an hour later. He was still wearing surgical blue scrubs and looked weary but relieved. He laid one hand on his son's head and this time the boy didn't tense up - not even slightly. He stroked the boy's tousled mop for a few brief seconds before speaking.

"He's alright," he told them both, but was only looking at his son.

"Why was he bleeding?" Sam asked.

The Doctor sat down and he took the time to explain the surgery to the boy, even though Clara could tell that he wanted to go home.

"After the major surgery he had this morning, a vein started bleeding close to where we worked on the bullet wound. When it happens, it's always very quick and we always have to operate again just as quickly, before the bleeding gets too bad."

"Rory said you stopped it in time."

"We did, and now we're going to have to wait again until he wakes up."

"Can it happen again? Can he bleed like that again?"

"That's very unlikely, now. I think he'll be okay, but we'll only be sure tomorrow." Sam nodded, reassured.

"I hope you weren't too bored, there must have been hundreds of different things you probably wanted to be doing this afternoon," the Doctor then told Clara, turning in her direction.

"That's fine, I had a few phone calls to make for my flat, and Sam did some great drawings of his x-ray, look," she answered, gesturing towards the sheets of paper on the table.

"They're amazing, Sam. You've gotten really very good at this," he told his son sincerely. The boy looked pleased, but didn't speak. "Didn't it hurt your hand?" Sam shrugged.

"Can I keep one to put in my office? That would look great in there."

"Yeah, sure," the boy agreed, visibly thrilled, and handed his father the best one he'd made.

"Thank you, and we can put one on the fridge at home, as well. Just to remind yourself not to punch other kids, perhaps." Sam frowned, but reluctantly nodded.

The Doctor stood up again and told them he would go get changed and they would be able to leave. He took the drawing with him, presumably to get it to his office. Clara smiled at Sam and she wasn't surprised to see that he was on the verge of falling asleep. All the excitement and expectation over the surgery must have drained him. And now that he'd seen his dad and been told that the boy would be okay, he finally allowed himself a break.

When the Doctor reappeared ten minutes later, Sam was resting his head against his arms on the table. Clara hadn't had the heart to keep him awake. His father didn't seem surprised either, but he looked undecided about something. He eventually very gently shook his son's shoulder, telling him that he could sleep in the car, but that they had to reach it first. Sam mumbled something unintelligible but got up, and walked close to the Doctor all the way to the car. He put the seatbelt on the boy, and Clara saw he had fallen back to sleep even before the engine started.

"Right. Now let's get your stuff," the Doctor announced resolutely.

"What? No, really, that's fine, let's just go home," Clara said, surprising herself with her use of the word "home".

"Sam needs to go to bed," she insisted, glad that the Doctor hadn't noticed her slip, or at least chose not to react.

"He's asleep, he'll be alright for a little while, and I'm guessing you at least need some clothes. So come on, tell me, where am I going?"

Thinking that arguing with him would only delay Sam's actual bedtime, she gave him the directions to her flat in Kentish Town. He found a spot to park close to her front door, and Clara told him she would be quick and pack only her essentials. She came back fifteen minutes later with a hiking backpack and her laptop bag. Thankfully, she hadn't been stopped by the only roommate she saw. In all likelihood, he probably didn't even know yet that she was moving out. Or had forgotten already. She put her stuff in the boot, which she closed as quietly as she could, and went back to sit at the front.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Compared to everything you've done for me and Sam today, that was nothing."

"Well, it's kind of my job now, right?" she told him, smiling.

"I guess so. But still, doesn't mean you shouldn't be thanked as well. And paid, I..."

"We can discuss all that later, really," she interrupted him.

"Right. Tomorrow then. I also have to go and see Sam's head teacher at some point, he called during lunch."

So that's why the boy had looked so gloomy when Martha and her had arrived at the cafeteria, she thought.

"And you told me you had a night shift tomorrow as well."

"Yes. So I'll have time to do stuff during the day."

"Don't forget to get some sleep," Clara couldn't help but blurt out, realising too late that it had sounded a bit motherly. But she could see the Doctor smile slightly in the darkness of the car.

"Don't worry, I'll find the time to sleep," he answered, and Clara could hear the smile in his voice. That was definitely a sound she liked. She'd have to find a way to hear it again. For now, she'd settle on letting him drive in peace.

Once they had parked, Clara picked up her bags and this time the Doctor didn't hesitate like he had at the hospital. He picked Sam up and carried him all the way to his bed. The boy didn't wake up once but still held on to his father's neck trustfully. Clara was pretty sure that things would turn out okay between the two of them.


	3. Chapter 3

The nightmare was worse than any other he'd had until now. This was probably the first time he dreamt about Sam, as well. The boy had been holding a gun to his head, and he'd been unable to do anything: he couldn't move, couldn't scream or even speak, but he could still close his eyes, apparently. Just as as a loud 'bang!' resonated in his mind, he opened his eyes once more, and found himself in the pitch darkness of his bedroom. He didn't dare close his eyes again, for fear he would be met by the same terrifying image, so he rolled out of bed, shaking violently and out of breath. He paced up and down the room, and tried to forget what he'd seen in his sleep. But he knew already that the dream wouldn't go away anytime soon. Once he felt that his heart rate had slowed down to an acceptable tempo, he left his bedroom quietly and walked to the other end of the corridor. Usually, he just had to open his son's door and observe his sleeping form standing on the threshold. But this time, he felt compelled to move closer. He resisted laying a hand on Sam's back to feel his regular breathing, but he still stood silently over him for a few minutes.

The Doctor then went downstairs to the kitchen to pour himself some water, and sat at his desk. He didn't turn on any light and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. By the time he'd finished his glass, he had seen two foxes chasing each other in the back garden, which was barely illuminated by the moon. Their movements were quick, but unmissable. Not feeling like switching on his computer to do some work, he went back to the kitchen. When he saw on the microwave that it wasn't even four o'clock yet, he decided to walk back upstairs and try and get some more sleep: there was no way he would be able to do everything he had planned today, including his night shift, if he didn't sleep for at least a few more hours. So he laid down on the bed, closed his eyes and there were thankfully no more dreams for him that night.

The next time he woke up, he was startled to see that it was close to nine and a half already. He hadn't set an alarm the previous night, and was glad that Sam didn't have to go to school. He must have been more sleep deprived than he'd thought. He walked downstairs and found Clara and his son having breakfast. They sat in the same spots as yesterday morning, and neither complained when he took the stool between them.

"Good morning, Doctor," said Clara in a happy tone that was just a bit too loud to the Doctor's ears.

"Morning," he mumbled back.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked him in a very cheerful voice.

"Huh..."

"He takes coffee in the morning," Sam graciously interrupted him, at a much more acceptable sound level. Clara looked around the kitchen, probably in search of a coffee maker, so the Doctor stood up and gestured to her that she should stay seated.

"It's alright, I'll do it," he told her.

He took the coffee press from the cupboard over the sink, and set about making his own breakfast at a slow pace. He could see that Sam had only just started eating his cereals. On the other hand, Clara had apparently drunk at least one entire cup of tea, if not more, and ate a few slices of toast. This explained her cheerfulness, thought the Doctor. Or perhaps she belonged to that strange category of people who managed to wake up and start being functional as soon as their feet touched the ground. Given the half opened eyes of his son and his clumsy movements to reach the orange juice, he belonged to the same group as him. This actually reassured him a great deal. He resisted breathing a sigh of relief when Clara poured herself another cup of tea and went to the living room with an amused smile on her face.

Once he'd sat back down next to Sam with his coffee, he saw that one of his x-ray drawings had been displayed on the fridge thanks to a couple of magnets. He was pretty sure Clara had done it and not Sam. This reminded him that he had to go see the head teacher today, which implied that he had a talk with his son beforehand. He needed to have a clearer picture of the events leading to his fight with the other boy. But surely that could wait until he had had some caffeine.

He was surprised to hear Samuel speak up first, once he'd finished eating. He had also made sure that his father had had enough coffee, which was very nice of him.

"Do you know if the boy is okay? Your patient from yesterday?" he asked.

"I didn't get a page, so he must be alright. The hospital will let me know if there's anything wrong, and I'll see for myself this evening."

"Are you going to be at the hospital all night?"

"From six o'clock to six o'clock tomorrow morning. So I'll be there before breakfast and we can still do stuff today. And it'll only be once or twice a week," the Doctor answered, not sure if Sam was bothered by his schedule or something else.

"You'll be alright with Clara, right?" he added in a whisper, mindful of the presence in the other room.

"Sure," the boy said, and he looked like he meant it.

"How's your hand?" the Doctor remembered asking. He could tell that his son was getting tired of being asked this particular question, but he still humoured him.

"It's fine. I think it's almost healed."

"Good."

They were both looking at the drawing on the fridge, now. And the Doctor felt that the boy wanted to avoid the subject pertaining to it. He knew quite well that he was supposed to meet the head teacher today. The Doctor wanted Sam to tell him what had happened with the other boy, but he didn't want his son to stare vacantly into space, shrug when he was asked a question and pretend that nothing was wrong, like he had been doing a lot until now.

"You know, I'm pretty sure I've got some old x-rays somewhere. Of arms and legs and such. If you want to draw them as well just let me know and I'll find them for you," the Doctor eventually said, realising that he didn't want to broach the disagreeable subject just now, not when he'd finally found a way to communicate with his son.

"Really? Yes, that would be great," the boy answered, genuinely interested.

"Right, I'll go shower and I'll look for them, then. You should do the same." Sam wasn't too thrilled about taking showers or baths, but he usually obeyed when his father asked him to.

They all three whiled away the morning in companionable silence in the living room. Sam sat at the table by the bay window with his drawings, Clara on the couch with a book and the Doctor on an armchair with his laptop computer to read some medical journals. He could see that Clara wanted to say something, and had been wanting to say it probably since breakfast. It was quite clearly getting harder and harder for her to resist opening her mouth, and the Doctor would have probably found it funny if he didn't dread the words she was about to say. After all, he'd barely known her for two days, but she seemed to have a knack for broaching the exact subject people wanted to avoid. He was pretty sure she wanted to hear Sam talk about his fight, as well. And the Doctor knew he was running out of time: he had called the head teacher in his room whilst his son was taking a shower and they had planned to meet at the school around noon, during the lunch break. But he couldn't for the life of him find a way to make his son speak without bursting his happy bubble.

"So, Doctor..." started Clara. _Here we go, then_.

"Yes?"

"You're going to see the head teacher today, right?" She went straight for the jugular, he thought.

"Right, I have to meet him at noon, actually." At that, he saw Sam raise his head and stop his drawing.

"Do you think you'll see Sam's teachers as well?" she asked.

"I might," he answered, surprised, "Why?"

"Well, I just thought it would be a good idea to ask them for Sam's homework. That way, it'll be easier for him when he has to go back to class. Don't you think so, Sam?" His son hadn't seemed to mind being the subject of conversation until now, but he still nodded his head slowly.

The Doctor had to admit that he hadn't thought of that. He probably should have. Two weeks of missed classes was a lot after all, even in primary school. He guessed his guilt must have shown on his face, because Clara was quick to add:

"I mean, I just thought it might be a good idea. That way, me and Sam can work on some of the stuff together when you're at work, and he'll be able to ask for your help as well when you're here."

"Yes, that's a great idea, you're right."

The Doctor was glad to see that Samuel didn't look too opposed to that prospect. In fact, he knew the boy wouldn't mind some homework. He usually was quite studious. Clara had opened the way for him, now, and it would have been stupid not to jump on the occasion to mention the reason why he was going to the school in the first place. So he stood up slowly and sat opposite the boy at the big table which was already covered in papers, pencils and cardboard folders containing x-rays. The Doctor could read in the boy's grey eyes that he knew what he was going to ask him. And he looked less apprehensive than two days ago, which was a good thing at least.

"Sam, you don't have to tell me everything, just enough so that I know what to tell your head teacher," he said in a quiet tone. The boy looked down at his hands on the table, but he was still listening.

"I'm pretty sure the mother of the other boy has already been in to see him. And I bet her son told her what happened. I don't want the head teacher to know only his side of the story. He needs to know your side as well, in case they're different," _and I'm sure they're different_, added the Doctor silently in his mind.

"He's a liar," said Sam to his drawings, "he said you wouldn't come but you did."

"He said...?" but the Doctor remembered his son's words at the school. Samuel had looked surprised he'd arrived so quickly and had said so. He hadn't paid too much attention to his words at the time, but he probably should have.

"Of course I was going to come," he repeated, hoping that the boy would eventually believe him, "I'd come and pick you up no matter what."

Samuel shrugged, but at least he'd raised his eyes to him, and the Doctor could see that he looked a bit less cornered. The boy clearly needed more regular reassurance on his part, which was far from an easy task for the Doctor, who had never been used to hearing them in his youth.

"Is that why you punched him? Because he's a liar?" he asked calmly, looking straight into his son's eyes. He started shrugging once more, but eventually nodded.

"He said bad stuff about mum, too," Samuel added in a quiet voice, and the Doctor could tell he would hear nothing more on the subject. He certainly wouldn't press him, since he felt quite helpless every time the boy mentioned his mother - which had thankfully only happened a handful of times. Sam eventually started drawing again, and the Doctor stood up.

"The ulna is coming along nicely, keep that up," he told him. His son smiled almost imperceptibly and the Doctor went back to his armchair. Clara had remained silent during the whole exchange, but he could see that she might have wanted to add something, or possibly make a suggestion to him. But this would have to wait, he needed to leave for the school soon. He switched off his computer and went to the kitchen to check that they had enough food for lunch.

"Right, I'm going. Have lunch without me if you're hungry," he told Clara and Sam, walking back to the living room with his coat under his arm.

"I'll make something," offered Clara. He nodded in thanks and saw that Sam was still focused on his drawing. He let him be and left.

Once the Doctor was gone, Clara dropped the book she had been - mostly - pretending to read, and stood up. She wanted to get Sam to speak to her, but she could see that, much like yesterday at the hospital, it would be close to an impossible task to make him stop drawing. The Doctor was very good at avoiding uncomfortable subjects of conversation, but he had still managed to get something out of his son regarding the fight. It was obvious that they'd skimmed over the main issue, although they'd both made an effort. Watching them trying to communicate was sometimes almost painful. She'd been tempted to interrupt them but she'd already been the first person to actually mention the dreaded subject. It would have been a bit obvious if she'd also steered the conversation in a particular direction. Clara felt like an improvised psychiatrist with these two. If the situation wasn't so tragic, she'd probably laugh.

It wasn't exactly tragic, she was slightly exaggerating. And they'd both made progress already, after all. But Clara feared they would never get anywhere in their relationship if they didn't try to be more open about what they felt. And if they didn't take some risks. She could see how badly the Doctor wanted to make things right, but avoiding painful subjects would only result in more meaningful silences and outright lies. She couldn't help but think they shouldn't waste any more time, and that the more they waited, the harder it would be for them to move forward.

Clara went to the kitchen and started preparing the salad she wanted to make for lunch. She had been planing on making it ever since she saw the necessary ingredients in the fridge that morning. Clara usually planned her meals in advance and almost always knew the food that was available to her in the kitchen. She preferred things that way, it was more reassuring. That had worked in her favour in her various nanny jobs. She could tell the Doctor probably didn't function the same way. Him and his son had looked quite a pair, that morning. With their tousled hair, half closed eyes and mumbling voices. She had quickly surmised that it was best if she let them eat in peace and left the room.

"Sam, would you care to come and help me make lunch?" Clara called out, not really needing any help but hoping to have the opportunity to speak with the boy. He walked in the kitchen dutifully a few seconds later.

"Thanks. Could you get me a big bowl that we can use for the salad, please? I don't know where everything is, yet."

Sam got a salad bowl from under the microwave, and looked expectantly at her. Clara could tell he wouldn't have minded if she told him he could go back to his drawing. But she was far from done with him yet.

"Great, can you rinse the tomatoes and cut them into thin slices? Do you know how to do that?"

"Yes, I know how to slice tomatoes," he answered in a tone that was as close to cheekiness as she had ever heard from him.

"So, the thing we said about your homework, would that be okay with you?" she asked him, once he had started cutting the vegetables. The boy nodded. She would have to press him more if she wanted him to speak.

"I mean, I'm sure there's some stuff you can do on your own, but since I'll have to do some of my own homework, we could help each other." Still no verbal answer.

"And you can ask your dad when he's home as well," she added.

"He's good with Maths and stuff," Sam told her, finally joining in the conversation.

"I'm not surprised. He told me you might not have had much classes on the subject. Where did you use to go to school?" she risked asking him, not knowing much of anything about his previous life.

"Alexandria, in Egypt. It was an English-speaking school, with children from America as well. It was okay, but not like here. And you didn't have to wear a uniform." Clara was surprised that he had given her such a detailed answer - well, _detailed_ for him, at least -and Samuel looked surprised, too. He remained quiet until he had finished slicing the tomatoes.

"Could you set the table for three? We'll wait for your dad, right?" he nodded, and did as she asked. She didn't press him for more, knowing that he was probably only able to share so much about his past at a given time. Once he had finished, she could tell that he wanted to ask her something, but wasn't sure if he should.

"What is it, Sam?"

"Do you think they'll expel me? From the school?" he asked in a quiet voice, with his eyes fixed on the table.

"You were only excluded. I'm sure they would have said something straight away if they wanted to expel you for good."

"I know I shouldn't have punched him. But I really wanted him to stop saying mean things. And he was wrong. He... He came from the hospital really fast."

Clara had already noticed that Sam very carefully avoided any situation where he would have to call out for his father. She had never heard him say 'dad' or refer to the Doctor in such terms. And she was starting to wonder if the boy hadn't unconsciously been testing him when he'd punched the kid. Perhaps he had done it because he was aware that his father would be called to the school. And he had wanted to know if he would actually come for him. Clara knew kids did things like that all the time, without realising they were doing it. It pained her that Samuel had felt he needed to resort to such tactics, but she could understand his reasoning. He needed to see for himself that he could depend on his father, and his surprise at the outcome was proof enough that he needed more reassurance on the matter.

She tried to set his mind at ease about his exclusion while they were waiting, but Clara could tell that he would only be convinced once his father was back, which thankfully happened rather quickly. The Doctor looked more subdued than usual when he entered the kitchen, and Samuel picked up on it.

"Do I have to go to another school?" the boy asked in a resigned voice.

"What? No, of course not," his father answered, visibly surprised by Sam's question.

"Do _you_ want to go to another school?" he added, frowning.

"No, I like it."

"Good."

"So I can stay there?"

"Yes, and I saw your teachers, they gave me some homework and lesson plans for you. I told them you'd get help with those," he told him, holding a folder in his hand. Sam tried to reach for it, perhaps intent on starting now, but the Doctor told him they should at least eat first.

"Thanks for waiting, by the way, you didn't have to," he said to Clara.

"No problem. And Samuel helped out," she answered.

The Doctor looked pleasantly surprised by that fact and smiled slightly in appreciation at his son. Clara saw that he was more distracted than usual during lunch. He seemed preoccupied by something that must have taken place at the school. She resisted asking him about it during the meal and tried talking to Sam instead. He simply nodded most of the time, but at least she convinced him that he shouldn't dive straight into his homework but rather start by dividing it between what he could do on his own and what he needed help with. He walked upstairs to his bedroom with the folder after the meal to presumably dive straight into that, at least.

As they were cleaning the kitchen and loading the dishwasher, Clara felt she could now risk asking the Doctor a few questions about the meeting.

"How did it go?" she started innocently enough.

"Alright, I guess. Yeah, it went... well," he answered, cryptically.

"And you saw Sam's teachers too?"

"I did. They said nice things about him." She could tell that he was happy about that fact, but this didn't explain the puzzled look in his eyes.

"What?" she pressed, deciding that she should employ the same strategy with father and son.

"What do you mean, 'what'?" he countered, apparently already familiar with her schemes.

"Why do you look so amazed that things went smoothly? Even though you already knew Sam wasn't entirely to blame for the fight and that he is a good kid." Clara told him, hoping that her logical reasoning would not only throw him but also encourage him to give her an honest answer. He seemed to be chewing over what he should tell her, standing still with a couple of glasses in his hands. She waited patiently, and finished wiping the table.

"I don't know," he started by saying, but she could tell she would not need to ask him to elaborate. He put the two glasses in the dishwasher, closed it, then leaned against it. He thought about his words some more, crossing his arms. Then he breathed in deeply and looked at her straight in the eyes.

"I guess I expected them to tell me that I was an unfit parent. Or that Sam was a troubled youth whose head needed to be looked at."

"But you know that's not the case," she pointed out.

"Yeah, I know that Sam is a good kid," he answered, copying her previous words. It didn't escape Clara that he had deliberately glossed over his first remark.

"You're not an unfit parent," she felt compelled to emphasize. The Doctor shrugged, in a way that was very reminiscent of his son.

"I think it's a bit early for you to make such observations. You've only been here a couple of days, you can't know that yet," he told her in a tone that was a bit too patronising to her liking.

"I know what I've seen, and I've seen unfit parents, believe me," she retorted, scowling.

"His teachers were very understanding, even the head teacher in fact," he then said, changing the subject intentionally. Clara hadn't convinced him with her words. She'd have to work harder on it later on. She also knew he needed to be told he was doing a great job with Sam, all considering. But making him believe her was a different matter entirely.

"Did you expect them to act differently?" she asked him bluntly. He shrugged once more, apparently done with the discussion.

"Samuel's only been here for two months, they can't reasonably be anything but understanding. He punched a kid, he didn't stab him or set fire to the school," Clara tried to persuade him. It struck her that the Doctor was unused to people acting nicely and decently without any ulterior motive. People behaving humanly. Maybe one day she'd get him to talk more about his past, because this belief of his had clearly originated there.

"His two teachers told me the boy he had a fight with was indeed a bully; there's always been problems with him. But apparently his mother is on the board or something, which makes it harder to get rid of him."

The Doctor seemed to be debating whether he should tell her something else. He shuffled his feet and raised his shoulders in hesitation.

"The head teacher, Mr Miller..." he started in a quieter voice, looking down, "He seemed to imply that if I pushed for it, I could have Sam's exclusion reduced to one week. But..." He stared at her once more, and Clara saw that he felt somewhat guilty.

"I don't know. I might have made a mistake, but I think Sam needs some time away from school. I shouldn't have enrolled him straight away. I should have given him time to settle in, time to... Time with me, I guess." Clara sat down at the kitchen table, to let the Doctor voice his concerns. It was clearly not something he often did - out loud, at least - so she refrained from interrupting him.

"Do you think it was the right call? Should I have asked the head teacher to allow Sam back next week?" He eventually said to her, although asking for advice visibly made him feel uncomfortable.

"I think that was the right decision. I agree with you that this time away from school is doing him some good."

"But I'm depriving him of two weeks of class. That's not really responsible of me."

"He's nine years old and you were given his lesson plans. I'm sure that between the two of us, we can manage to teach him what he might have missed, genius doctor that you are, and everything," she half joked, hoping he would see the situation more lightly. He smiled ruefully, so that was something at least.

"And, you know, you shouldn't blame yourself for having enrolled him to school straight away. You both needed time to adjust, so why not take that time now? It's bound to be easier. You're starting to know each other better." He searched her eyes for a few seconds, and Clara hoped he saw how earnest she was.

"Right," he eventually whispered.

Like the morning, the afternoon was spent for the most part in the living room. Samuel came down with his homework folder and agreed to show it to Clara. She could tell that they would be done with it rather quickly. The boy had already started some of his assignments - History and Geography, unsurprisingly - and didn't balk at the sight of the Maths and English lessons he needed to learn. Remembering what the Doctor had told her about giving his son time to settle in, she inquired whether he had been to any museum in the city yet. When he answered in the negative, she suggested they should visit a few. He actually seemed very excited at the prospect, and Clara could tell the Doctor felt foolish for not having thought of it on his own. She smiled at him reassuringly and added:

"Your dad can come too, if he can. And you live quite close to the zoo, as well. I went there a few times."

"I'm too old to go to the zoo," said Sam resolutely, even though Clara knew she wouldn't have a hard time convincing him otherwise.

Before the Doctor left for his night shift, his son asked him to show him how the viewing box in his office worked. He wanted to be able to see the x-rays more vividly for his drawings. And Clara could tell Sam wanted to do something that reminded him of his father's work whilst he was away at the hospital. When the Doctor told him that he could look at any book in the room if he wanted inspiration for his drawings, Sam stared at his father with a new kind of adoration, which visibly greatly unsettled him. Clara thus refrained from pointing out that there might be medical books he should hide from the young boy and made herself a mental note to tell him later. She'd just have to check which books Sam selected until then. And after all, the boy already seemed to know various gruesome anatomic details thanks to his passion for Ancient History.

Thankfully, the Doctor's night shift was quite uneventful. He took the time to visit all his patients in the ward - with the exception of Timothy Howard, who was still in ITU - rescheduled the elective surgeries that had been cancelled for the next few days and around midnight finally had the opportunity to talk to Martha about something that wasn't work-related.

"So, how is it going with Clara at home? Sam seems to be doing okay with her," Martha asked him as they were taking a break in his office whilst reviewing files and sharing a pot of tea.

"It's going very well, I think. And Sam does seem to like her," the Doctor agreed, swivelling gently in his chair. He did feel quite comfortable around Martha, who had been working with him for a while, now.

"You didn't tell me she was so..."

"So what, Doctor?" his registrar interrupted, with a knowing smile.

_Pretty_, he wanted to say, but didn't. Even though it was one of the first words that came to his mind when he thought about her. "Bossy," he eventually settled on saying, since it came in close second, "and obstinate."

"I knew you'd like her," Martha said, as though she had heard the word he had chosen not to utter.

"Thanks again for having suggested her in the first place," the Doctor answered, selecting not to comment on Martha's own choice of words.

"You're welcome," she told him genuinely.

He sent the young woman home soon after that, telling her that her shift should have been over a few hours ago. He wanted her to start depending on him again, even though he was aware that she had been acting out of the goodness of her heart. She was probably the only person he knew who would behave like that and not expect anything in return, although he couldn't help but feel that she deserved more from him because of that.

The Doctor then went to A&amp;E to help out. It wasn't normally one of his prerogatives, but he had always done it anyway, knowing that he would be bored out of his skull and fall asleep if he stayed working alone in his office. He wanted to stay busy until the morning, when he expected Timothy Howard to come round from yesterday's surgery. Treating emergency patients wasn't as challenging as operating on brains, but he still enjoyed the work and the puzzles some of the cases offered. The other doctors were used to his presence and more than tolerated it. They valued his input and knew that he wasn't there to encroach on their territory. The Doctor was helping because he couldn't imagine doing anything else. That was simply who he was.

He took the stairs around five o'clock, needing the exercise, and reached the ITU to start his early morning rounds. He finished with his youngest patient who was responsive and had been extubated without any trouble whilst he was treating patients in A&amp;E. His mother was not with him, but the nurses told him she had been by his side most of the time ever since the second surgery, keeping silent vigil. The Doctor was glad to learn that. And he also wanted to examine the boy without the presence of the slightly unpredictable mother.

"Good morning, Timothy," the Doctor said, seeing that the boy's eyes were partially opened, "I'm the surgeon who operated on your head. How do you feel?" He didn't get any answer from him, but he could see that the boy's eyes were following him in the room. He sat on the bed next to him, and tried once more.

"Can you grip my hands, please?" he asked him, holding both his hands out, which the boy took. He gripped them both with equal strength, which reassured the Doctor.

"Now close your eyes, stretch out your arms in front of you and turn your palms upwards."

His patient obeyed once more, and both his hands were levelled. He appeared to be out of the woods. Now he would just have to find a way to make him talk.

"Do you know where you are?"

"The hospital," Timothy mumbled.

"Do you remember what happened?"

"I thought I was dead," the boy answered after a few seconds of silence. The Doctor had to remind himself that his patient was only a few years older than his son.

"Well, it was a close call for a while. But you're going to be fine."

"Where's my mum?"

"She's been with you most of the time, I'm sure she'll be back soon."

"Was she angry?" the Doctor was glad to hear that the boy's speech was apparently unimpaired, but he was having a hard time deciding what he should tell him on that particular subject.

"No, she was glad to know that you were alright," he eventually answered, knowing that he wasn't being completely honest. The boy seemed to pick up on that, because he looked at him more closely.

"I think she was in shock," he thus felt compelled to add, wanting to maintain the trust with his patient.

"She's always like that. She's always...out of it. Ever since dad died."

"I'm so sorry. When did it happen?" the Doctor asked, seeing that the boy needed to talk.

"Almost a year ago, now. He was supposed to come and pick me up from rugby practise. He had a car accident. They said at the hospital that he didn't suffer." They both stayed quiet after that, but the Doctor could tell Timothy wasn't done.

"I hate hospitals," he told him, looking around the room, "It's the smell. I can't believe she stayed there with me all this time."

"She's your mum, of course she stayed," the Doctor said, although he knew his words weren't always true and might seem trite, even to a twelve year old.

"I think she blames me. For dad. I was supposed to take the bus home that day, but I wanted him to see me play." The boy seemed incapable of stopping the flow of words, now. And the Doctor guessed that the prospect of dying had - understandably - scared him a great deal. He couldn't speak for the boy's mother, whose attitude had indeed troubled him, but now that he had Sam in his life he felt he could speak a little for his dad.

"I'm sure he wanted to see you play. Just as I'm sure that he didn't want you to hurt yourself with a gun," he told him in a quiet voice. Timothy looked close to tears and the Doctor felt terrible for a moment, up until the boy started talking again in a broken voice.

"I didn't want to die! It was stupid. I found where mum kept dad's old gun and I just..." the Doctor wished someone else was here with him in the room. Martha, who was so at ease with patients. Rory, who always took the time to listen to every little detail, even though it meant he took hours getting a patient's history. Even Amy, who, for all her bluntness, was actually really good at reading people. Clara would know, too. Clara would probably be the most suited for this situation. The boy didn't need a doctor, after all. Not really. Not anymore. Trying with all his might to imagine how his young au pair would react, he laid a hand on Timothy's shoulder and gently forced him to look into his eyes.

"Life hasn't been fair to you, and I'm really sorry about that. But it doesn't mean it will always feel like that. It doesn't mean it won't ever be good again." The Doctor knew he wasn't great at philosophical speeches on the value of life, but he could tell that the boy had taken his few words seriously. He exited the room soon after that, realising that the boy's almost confession had drained him. He hoped sleeping would help. He needed a lot of it to ensure the healing process.

He asked to be paged if the mother wasn't back in the next few hours and he left the hospital with more questions than answers regarding his young patient. Driving home, he came to the painful conclusion that social services would be contacted no matter what he did. Both mother and son would be asked about the gun and the suicide attempt - if cries for help could indeed be labelled as such - by the authorities, and an inquiry would probably look into the boy's home life and judge his mother's capacity to take care of him. Even though this prospect went against everything he believed in, he thought that for once, that might not be a bad thing.

The Doctor arrived home around seven. He had stayed at the hospital longer than he had anticipated, but the house was still quiet. He sat at the kitchen table, his coat still on, with his eyes fixed on the fridge and his son's drawing. His young patient would at least now physically be alright, he thought. That had to count for something. He had done his job correctly. And there was unfortunately not much else he could do for him, now. The Doctor didn't know how long he had been staring into space when he felt a presence beside him.

"Sorry, Sam. Did I wake you up when I came in?"

"No."

He wondered if the boy hadn't been waiting for him to come home. He looked far too awake for someone who'd just got out of bed - and wasn't called Clara Oswald. Sam was apparently expecting him to say something, and stood patiently.

"The boy woke up. He's going to be okay," his son smiled at that, "Yes, he's going to be just fine," he added, more for his benefit than Sam's. He needed to persuade himself of that fact.

"Now let's have breakfast, yeah?" he asked the boy, who nodded happily and walked towards the cupboards. To the Doctor's surprise, he stood on his tiptoes and reached for the coffee press, intent on helping out. It was the first time they made breakfast together, and the Doctor realised that this could quickly become his favourite moment of the day.

The next few days passed relatively quickly. The Doctor, Clara and Sam had found a schedule that apparently suited everybody. On the afternoons the Doctor didn't have to spend at the hospital, Sam and him would both sit at the living room table and work while Clara did research for her thesis at her university library. Sam usually didn't need much help with his school assignments, but he still liked asking for his father's opinion and advice. The afternoons he spent with Clara often took them outside. The boy didn't like taking the tube, so they usually walked everywhere or took the bus, which was actually fine by her.

It took them three days to visit the whole of the British Museum, which had - unsurprisingly - utterly captivated Samuel. He was in a flurry of excitement and could spend twenty minutes in front of certain artefacts or sculptures. He still didn't talk much, but Clara learned more about Ancient History with him next to her that she would have probably learned with any tour guide. On the third day, when they'd both felt that they had seen everything there was to be seen, they chose to walk home. It would take them close to an hour, but they stopped in Kensington Gardens halfway through to sit on a bench.

"See that statue, over there?" she asked the boy, "It's Peter Pan at the top. One of his adventures took place in Kensington Gardens."

"Really? I thought it was in Neverland."

"That was in Barrie's following novels. I'll have to make you read the book, that might help me for my thesis, actually."

"Okay," Samuel agreed. "So... what happens in this one?" he added, curious.

"In this one, Peter is just a baby. And he escapes from his home through the window to go to the garden during the night, even though the gates are closed. It's another kind of Neverland really, and he spends his time with the fairies, who can only be seen after Lock-out-time. It's very sad, at times. But I still think you should read it."

"My mum used to make up stories for me when I was younger. She never read them from a book. They were often a bit sad, but I think I prefer them that way," Sam told her unaffectedly, as though he often talked about his mother. Clara tried not to show her surprise and spoke up.

"It was always my mum who told me stories before I went to sleep, too. And you're right, the ones that are a little sad are better."

"I would sit on the couch with her after dinner. She was always reading articles and books and stuff, and they were everywhere, and sometimes it was hard to find a clear spot. I remember what the couch looked like in Buenos Aires. And in Bangkok. And in Alexandria, of course. But I don't really remember the other ones. I guess I was too young. I remember some of the stories..." Clara saw how bright Samuel's eyes were. He was smiling widely. She had never seen him like that. His face was alight with joy and the memories seemed to transport him to a sacred, happy place. He looked at her and she smiled back, hoping he would see that she would love nothing more than hearing him speak.

"And... and there was always a little boy in them, and he always looked just like me. He would go on adventures and discover amazing places and make a lot of friends along the way. And sometimes, she would tell me stories about things that really happened in History. But there was always the little boy, even in those. We sat very close on the couch and she would speak really quietly except when there was a monster or a baddie and I would sit even closer because I was scared and her hair smelled... Her hair always smelled the same," at this, Sam stopped, and looked less certain of where his words were taking him.

"The cities and the houses and the couches were always different. And the stories, too. But her hair always smelled the same," he concluded in a small voice, looking lost.

The boy sat frozen, staring into space, and Clara had tears in her eyes she couldn't hide anymore. He had managed to conjure up his mother's memory for a time, but now he had come to the crushing realisation that she hadn't been there all this time. She hadn't been sitting next to him on the bench. Clara wiped her cheeks quickly and stood up. She faced Sam and took his hand. He looked up at her and seemed a little less crestfallen.

"Let's go home, Samuel. Okay?" the boy nodded, his eyes unfocussed but dry, and he didn't let go of her hand on the way back.

On a rainy day when they were all home and Sam looked a bit bored - his school assignments were over and done with - Clara remembered that she had not yet seen the inside of the houseboat. When she asked Sam about it, he told her that he hadn't been inside either. He didn't look too thrilled about the prospect of going there, although she could tell the Doctor would have loved nothing more than showing him around. She guessed he had already suggested they visited it without success.

"Let's go then, I really want to see it. And it's only across the street, we won't get too wet," she declared, standing up, forcing them to copy her movements.

Sam looked somewhat apprehensive, dragging his feet on the small gangway, up until the Doctor opened the blue, wooden door.

"It's actually a lot bigger on the inside!" Clara exclaimed, amazed at how everything was so well laid out. Sam looked at everything with the same wonder and amazement once he'd stepped inside.

They visited the living space which had everything one could yearn for. Water, electricity, curtained windows, a small kitchen, a small bathroom, big sofas, a big bed in the room below the helm and the ever present bookcases. Clara wanted to laugh at the sheer number of books the Doctor had once again managed to fit in the place. The middle of the deck was thus devoted once more to reading, it seemed. And the two yellow couches facing each other, though old, were very comfy. She looked at the titles while the Doctor took Sam to the upper deck to show him the helm and the engine. She heard them talk intently about how everything worked and the repairs the Doctor hoped he'd be able to complete soon.

"So it can't move?" asked the boy, once they'd returned below deck.

"It used to, I'm sure I can make it work again, I just need to find the time to tinker about," said the Doctor, looking around with a rare fond smile on his face, his hands in his pockets.

"Did you travel with it?"

"A little, but it doesn't go very fast, you know."

"Can we go somewhere once it's fixed?" Sam asked, visibly excited at the idea.

"Sure," the Doctor answered, pleasantly surprised, "that's a good idea."

"You've got so many great books, here," said Clara, joining in the conversation, "so many old children stories and novels."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot they were here. Well, not surprising really. You can use them for your thesis if you want. Or even come and work here if you wish," the Doctor told her, still looking pleased that they both liked his precious houseboat.

Hearing the gentle patter of the rain hitting the upper deck and admiring once more the wonderfully warm and inviting atmosphere of the place, Clara didn't hesitate.

"Yes, I think I'd like that."

"Good, I'll give you a key, then."

"Can I come and spend time here too? To read the books you told me about, Clara? Or help you fixing the engine?" asked Sam hopefully.

"That sounds like a great idea. Right Doctor?" said Clara, cheerfully.

"Yes, it does," replied the Doctor with mirth in his eyes.

"Why is it called the Tardis?" asked Sam once they were back at the house. Clara had also seen the name painted in white on the side of the houseboat, and was wondering the same thing.

"Well," started the Doctor, "I don't have a real answer for that, unfortunately. I used to live there, and I thought the name just fit."

Clara could tell he wasn't being completely honest with his answer. Maybe one day she'd get him to tell her the story behind the curious name.

"Really? You lived on the houseboat?"

"Oh yes, I lived on the Tardis for a very long time before I bought the house, here. Actually, I was moored in that spot for a while, when I noticed that the house across the street was on sale one day. And I thought, why not?"

"Let me guess, you were running out of room for your books," Clara said jokingly.

"Yes, and most were in storage actually. I didn't have the heart to sell any of them, I never could," the Doctor answered seriously, which made her guffaw unexpectedly. They both looked at her with the same startled expression, which only made her laugh harder.

Clara shouldn't have been surprised that things would take a bad turn at one point. Samuel had been back at school for a week now, and he hadn't mentioned his mother or the discussion they'd had on the park bench once. She should have known that the peaceful atmosphere wasn't meant to last. Clara couldn't help but feel a little guilty: she had been lulled into a false sense of stability and contentment. She had spent far too much time silently admiring the Doctor and his budding relationship with his son when she should have forced him to deal with painful matters head-on.

The Doctor and Sam had developed a new routine ever since the boy had started showing interest in his father's work at the hospital and more especially x-rays. So every time the Doctor had an interesting case, he would spend time showing CT scans and MRI results to his son and they would discuss the operation together. Like Sam, Clara never tired of listening to the Doctor sharing his knowledge and passion. He was wonderfully fascinating and they were both captivated. She probably didn't pay as much attention as the boy, but she still learned more than she had ever thought possible about cerebral aneurysms, subdural haematomas, acoustic neuromas, cortical dysplasia, arteriovenous malformations, ependymomas and so on. Out of all those new words she learnt the significance of, one proved to be the downfall of all that the Doctor and Sam had managed to achieve until now.

"So, what was the operation this morning?" Samuel asked excitedly one Wednesday afternoon. The Doctor had promised to show him something new on the viewing box when he'd picked him up from school. Clara was sitting more patiently on the couch in the Doctor's office, but she was still anticipating a riveting lecture.

"Right, this morning we had to operate on a woman's small tumour. It had grown on the surface of the brain from a layer of tissue that covers the brain and the spine and is called the meninges," the Doctor showed him.

"This kind of tumour pushes the brain away rather than grows from within it. Which is why they can wreak havoc on it and impair movements, vision or speech. They're called meningiomas, and..."

He carried on but Clara could see that the boy was no longer listening. The Doctor had his back to him, since he was facing the viewing box, and couldn't tell that Sam stood frozen with a look of shock on his face. She stood up, unsure what to anticipate.

"And...and the patient? She's alright?" the boy interrupted in a trembling voice. The Doctor turned around, alerted by his son's tone.

"Yes, she is, we got to it quickly and it was still small, luckily" he answered slowly, frowning.

"So you saved her? She's going to live?" Sam added, loudly, and Clara could now tell that the quiver in his voice wasn't caused by fear, but by anger.

"Well, yes, but..." Something then dawned on the Doctor's face, something Clara had never seen there before. Pure, naked terror.

"Sam, the meningioma... It was benign, it means..." he tried to add, but it was no use. The boy took a few steps back to get some distance between him and his father.

"You saved HER! Why couldn't you save MUM?" Samuel raged, his face heating up, with angry tears in his eyes.

"Sam, I couldn't, it was cancer, and..." the Doctor tried to placate the boy, helplessly. He started approaching him, but Sam kept retreating and was almost at the door.

"NO, NO!" he shook his head furiously. "You just said you were lucky because you operated quickly! And the tumour was small, and... and..." Sam was now having a hard time breathing, but he wasn't done.

"WHERE WERE YOU? Why weren't you there when she was sick? Why didn't you check up on us? YOU could have saved HER!" he yelled, even louder, the tears streaming down his face uncontrollably.

"I'm so sorry Sam, I..." the Doctor whispered, his voice shaking - but contrary to his son, it wasn't in rage.

"I HATE you! I never want to see you again!" the boy interrupted angrily once more, and this time he had nothing else to add, so he left the room quickly and they heard his bedroom door banging against the frame as it was closed with violence.

Clara hadn't moved. The explosion had been so brutal that she didn't have time to react. She had been transfixed by the boy's words and realised that she was still trembling. She observed the Doctor, open-mouthed, and tried vainly to think of something to say.

"Doctor, wh..."

"I didn't think he knew so much," he spoke slowly, pacing the room and pulling at his hair nervously. His hands were shaking, and his movements were erratic.

"I thought... _God_, I really fucked things up, didn't I?" he asked rhetorically, and finally looked at her. He appeared utterly broken for a second but then he breathed in deeply, scraped his scalp angrily one last time, and Clara saw that his mask was now back in place.

"Right," he said, in a tone that almost convinced her that he was unaffected by what had just taken place, "what time is it?" he asked to no one in particular, looking at his watch.

"_Shit_, I'm going to be late. Night shift, see you tomorrow Clara," he said to the room at large, no longer able to look her in the eyes.

"You... You're just going to leave?" she asked him, having a hard time hiding her outrage.

"I'm sorry, I really have to be on time for the rounds. We'll... We'll talk tomorrow," he told her, leaving the room. She followed him all the way to the front door.

"Oh, right, that's how you do things, isn't it? 'Let's deal with it tomorrow?' Doctor, you need to speak to him! Right now. You need to tell him the truth about..."

"Please," he stopped her, and Clara did, seeing his mask starting to slip once more, "I can't deal with it just now. I promise we'll talk about it when I come home, and you'll be able to yell at me all you want then."

"Fine, go," she told him, trying to sound unfeeling but failing to, "I'll keep an eye on him."

He closed the door quietly and Clara remained standing on the same spot for a long time, trying to make sense of what she had witnessed.

The Doctor wasn't back in time for breakfast the next morning, but he'd had the decency to send Clara a text to apologise and tell her that he'd had an emergency. Choosing to believe him was another matter. The more time she'd had to think about things, the angrier she felt. She hadn't managed to talk to Samuel the previous night. The boy had locked himself in his room, but he had eaten the sandwich she had left for him behind his door before she went to bed. At breakfast, she resisted saying anything, although she could tell he wouldn't have been listening to her anyway. As she was walking him in silence to school, she hoped fervently that he wouldn't take out his rage on another child's nose.

She had meant to go to university that morning, but when she arrived home and didn't see any sign of the Doctor, she decided to wait for him. She was having a hard time concentrating on anything but fulminating. Clara hated the fact that he had buried his head in the sand and pretended that nothing was amiss the previous day. And she hated herself even more for not having pressed him to act at once. Sam still believed that the Doctor had known about his existence all his life, and that he had made the informed decision not to have a relationship with him up until he was forced to.

Clara was sitting motionless at the kitchen table with a cold cup of tea when she heard the front door open. She wanted to start the conversation as soon as the Doctor showed his face on the threshold, but one glance at him told her that it would have been unbelievably cruel. He looked completely undone with wild hair and lines across his face she was certain hadn't been there earlier. She silently watched him make coffee and let him fix a fresh cup of tea for her. He then walked to the living room and she followed him. For once, he selected to sit on the couch and Clara decided to remain standing.

"There was a big pile-up on the motorway last night, and I'll have to go back to the hospital soon, but I wanted to stop here for a while. So that we can talk," he told her in a dreary voice.

Clara didn't think that he was telling her all that so that she would go easier on him. After all, he knew her better than that. And the Doctor was the last person on earth who would ever ask for pity.

"Doctor, tell me what happened last night," she asked him calmly.

"I didn't think Sam knew his mother had a meningioma. I thought he believed she'd been sick with cancer. Otherwise, I would have never told him about this patient," he sighed deeply, shaking his head slowly.

"The type of cancer his mother had was very rare, and very aggressive. There was nothing to be done, even if it had been discovered early on. And she had known for a little while, I saw the exam results."

"And you never asked Sam to tell you about his mother's illness?" Clara said, frowning.

"No, I didn't. Call me a coward if you want, I don't care. And I deserve it."

"You're not a coward. And stop being so passive-aggressive, it's infuriating," she told him, crossing her arms and staring down at him.

The Doctor stood up, and smiled coldly at her. He wasn't scaring Clara, and she expected him to lash out at her frankness, but he didn't. He started pacing the room like yesterday. Any second now he would start pulling at his hair, she thought.

"I don't think telling him the truth will change anything, now. I'm not sure he will believe me anyway," he said in a matter of fact tone.

"Then make him believe you! He's a nine year old child who just lost his mum. Look how close you'd become these past few weeks and how much he'd started looking up to you..."

"Don't you think I know that?" he interrupted her abruptly, and Clara was glad to hear that he was finally voicing his sentiments.

"Well, do you want to go back to the way things were at the beginning?" she asked him just as bluntly, standing quite close to him now, "Do you want him to keep on saying he hates you?"

"Of course not!" he yelled, raising his arms and clenching his fists.

"Then stop lying to him," she told him simply, in a voice that she hoped was levelled and calm. But it was hard to tell, with him standing so close to her. She saw his eyes turn a stormy blue and the anger leave his face. They were both breathing heavily and Clara had the sudden urge to move even closer to him to see what would happen. But before she had time to understand her unexpected reaction, the Doctor had turned his back to her. She licked her dry lips and picked up her abandoned cup of tea.

"Right, I'm going to take a shower and head back to the hospital. I'll let you know when I'll be able to come home, but it might be a while," he told her in a gravelly voice, without looking at her, "Are you going to be okay with Sam until then?"

"Sure," she answered, distractedly.

The Doctor replayed his conversation with Clara in the car. He couldn't make sense of it. One minute they were yelling at each other and the next... He wasn't sure. Looking into her eyes he thought he'd seen... But surely not. That was impossible, he was probably imagining things. And he couldn't let himself be distracted: he had two tricky surgeries waiting for him at the hospital and a son who was once again hating him waiting for him at home. There wasn't room for anything else.

He spent the day picking skull fragments out of various people's dura, treating acute subdural haematomas and reconstructing craniums. Thankfully, it meant that he was too busy to be thinking about either Sam or Clara. He elected not to go home, since he was done by one o'clock in the morning and would have to leave for the hospital again a few hours after that, so he slept fitfully on the sofa in his office. He had recently started dreaming again about Sam putting a gun to his head. But this time, just before the loud shot forced him to open his eyes, he thought he heard his son scream something. He checked his phone in fear when he woke up, but saw that he hadn't received any messages during his short night.

He was distracted the next day. So much so that his anaesthesiologist picked up on it, and asked him in the middle of a simple operation whether he wanted him to call Martha back. This had never happened before, and the Doctor realised that he couldn't keep on pretending that things would turn out alright between him and Sam. He had to do something. But he wasn't sure what.

The Doctor called Clara in the middle of the afternoon, and asked her to bring Samuel to the hospital after she'd picked him up from school. She didn't ask him why but he could tell she was curious. When they both entered his office, he saw that his son hadn't changed his mind in the last 48 hours and wouldn't even look at him. He had placed three MRI images on the viewing box against the wall.

"Come here, Sam," the Doctor asked. The boy didn't move, so he added in a quiet voice, "Please." His son reacted to the word and deigned looking in the direction he was pointing.

"Do you recognise the first picture? This is the MRI of my patient from two days ago. The one I showed you at home." Sam didn't say anything, but he was watching the image.

"We call this a Grade I meningioma. It is benign, which means it is not cancerous and grows very slowly. About 85% of meningiomas are like this. They're easy to operate on, and the patients are usually fine."

He then turned to the second picture, and thankfully Sam was still following his finger and hadn't interrupted him.

"This one is a Grade II meningioma. They are atypical, which means that they do not look like Grade I meningiomas although they are not cancerous either at first. But if we let them grow, they can become dangerous. Around 10% of meningiomas fit the criteria. They may grow back, but the patients can be fine for many years."

The Doctor took a deep breath, and pointed to the last MRI.

"This is your mum's results." Both Clara and Sam abruptly turned to stare at him. He saw that Sam was shocked, but he still looked back at the image, waiting for his explanation.

"This is a Grade III meningioma. More precisely, we call them malignant anaplastic meningiomas. They are very aggressive and cancerous. They invade very quickly the parts of the brain nearest to the tumour which makes it close to impossible to operate on them. The diseased cells then go into the bloodstream and infect the rest of the body. We only see them about 2 or 3% of the time and they are always fatal, no matter when you discover them, because they almost always grow back. I'm so sorry Sam, there was nothing anyone could have done, even me."

The boy stood frozen, looking at the image. And when he started shaking the Doctor kneeled down to be at the same eye level as him. He took both his hands in his and forced his son to turn towards him by pulling them gently.

"Sam, look at me. I know this is hard, and maybe I shouldn't have shown you this, but I wanted you to understand. I wanted you to see for yourself." The child started crying silently. He lowered his head and closed his eyes forcefully, hoping to stop the tears.

The Doctor then turned towards Clara, and he could see that she was silently encouraging him.

"Samuel, I need to tell you something else. This is important. Your mum..." the Doctor stopped, choosing his words carefully. The boy wouldn't open his eyes but he still held on to his hands.

"She didn't tell me when you were born. She never told me about you. I had no idea I had a son up until that day you both turned up on my doorstep." Sam opened his eyes and started slowly shaking his head, but he still didn't say anything.

"If I had known... _God_, Sam if I had known I would have been there with you from the very first day," the Doctor told him slowly and earnestly. Samuel started crying more openly but he raised his head ever so slightly to rest it against his father's shoulder. The Doctor froze for a second but he then hugged the child tightly against him and rubbed soothing circles against his back as the hot tears dampened his shirt.

"I would have followed you no matter where you were and spent every moment with you, I swear. And I would have taught you everything I know." He felt the boy sag completely against him in his grief, and the Doctor had no choice but to hold him even closer to him.

"I'm so sorry, Sam. I'm so sorry I wasn't there," he finally added, his throat welling up, and he wanted to hide his own face against his son's neck.

He felt the boy eventually calm down and stop shaking. He raised his head and dried his face with his shirt's sleeve. The Doctor's knees were starting to hurt quite badly but he didn't dare move yet. Although he was forced to when Rory burst into his office, a wild look on his face. His surgical trainee didn't even take in the scene before he started stuttering:

"D...Doctor, the patient... He... And Amy, she..." The Doctor stood up, frowning.

"What patient?"

"The one you thought had an aneurysm. The one who... He didn't want to be examined, and he was violent, and Amy... Please Doctor, you have to come!"

He followed Rory who almost ran to the ward. Clara and Sam were behind him and he didn't have time to tell them to stay back before they had reached the commotion.

"I said I didn't want to get inside your machine!" the man yelled.

He had attracted quite a crowd, but no one seemed to know what to do. Amy was the one standing closest to him, and she was trying to placate him. The Doctor understood why nobody had tried to pin him to the ground when he saw the disposable scalpel in his hand. He'd probably stolen it in A&amp;E this morning when no one was watching. His movements were erratic, and he appeared unhinged. Rory looked terrified every time the patient stretched out the scalpel in Amy's direction.

"Sir, you need to drop this knife," said the Doctor in a calm voice, moving closer.

"No, I won't! She wants to stick me in a dangerous machine!" the patient said, his eyes taking in every person standing around him.

"Amy, step back, I've got this," the Doctor told his trainee, slowly approaching.

"But Doctor..." she answered, her voice unsure.

"It's okay, just do as I say," he added, placing himself where Amy had just been standing.

"Sir, we do not want to hurt you, we just want to take a picture of your brain, you won't have to be in the machine for very long," he said slowly, trying to catch the man's eyes.

"There's nothing wrong with me!" he yelled, focusing solely on the Doctor now, and holding the scalpel very close to him.

"You need to drop the scalpel, and we can talk about it. If you don't want the exam, that's fine. But you need to put the knife down," said the Doctor as reasonably as he could. He had been certain the patient wouldn't lash out now that he was holding his stare, but obviously he'd misjudged him.

"Leave me alone!" he yelled. With a wild movement he sliced at the air, and the scalpel connected with the Doctor's chest, cutting him deeply through his clothes because of the force the man had put behind the gesture.

"DAD!"

Many things happened all at once. The first one the Doctor noticed was that the new word he had been hearing in his nightmares recently was the same one his son had just screamed. The second thing the Doctor realised was that the nice, reasonable approach he had been using with the patient was getting him nowhere. The last thing he took note of was the pain.

"Why the hell did you that?" he said, staring the man down, glad to see that he now looked wary of his approaching form.

The Doctor easily parried the next uncoordinated lunge. He considered the man's posture and saw that all of his weight was on his right leg, which was ramrod straight. If he tried harming him again, he wouldn't hesitate to shatter his knee. It took the Doctor close to no time to come to that decision. Old reflexes died hard, after all. When the man thrust the scalpel in his direction once more and he heard more screams behind him, he didn't feel one ounce of guilt when he brought the man down with one well-aimed kick.

Once he was on the ground, he used his foot to get the bloodied scalpel away from the man's grasp, even though he had dropped it before touching the floor. Given the painful groaning coming out of his mouth, he probably wouldn't have tried to reach for it again. When he turned around, he saw that the crowd had gotten bigger. Amy ran towards him.

"Doctor! You're..."

"You and Rory, go check on the patient. Once they're done x-raying his knee, stick him in a CT scan. My money is on an aneurysm in his temporal lobe pressing down on the amygdala. I'll try not to show myself in Orthopaedics for a while," he could tell that Amy wanted to say something else, but she saw in his eyes that it wasn't the right time to discuss his orders.

He found Clara standing in the background, forcefully holding Sam back. He was very grateful of that fact.

"I'll be right back. I'm just going to get fixed up," he told them, trying not to look into his son's eyes. He didn't want the boy to see him in such a state, and he was starting to feel blood dripping down his trouser leg.

"Martha Jones, you chose the perfect time to arrive," he said, finally noticing his registrar, "I need someone to stitch me up, and you're the best candidate."

"Doctor, what in _God's_ name happened?" she asked him, open-mouthed.

"Let's do this in an exam room, okay?" he pleaded, dragging her to the other end of the corridor, his right hand against the wound. The rush of adrenaline was leaving him, and he was starting to feel quite dizzy. He sat on the exam table, and finally had a look at the cut.

"Jesus, he almost took your appendix out!" Martha said, her eyes wide.

The wound wasn't very large, but it was indeed quite deep, and still bleeding heavily. The Doctor felt faint, and he was glad to be sitting down. He couldn't believe such a tiny blade had managed to cut through his jumper and shirt and cause so much damage.

"Stitch me up, will you?" he asked, raising his clothes higher and laying down. He closed his eyes for an instant.

"Doctor..." Martha started.

"Come on, 4-0 Vicryl on a PS-2 and you're good to go, you've done that hundreds of times."

"Why the rush?" she asked him, but started getting the various instruments ready.

"I have to get back to Sam. You saw him."

"He looked terrified," agreed Martha, "but then so was I, what happened? And where did you learn to fight like that?"

"I wasn't fight...ouch!" the Doctor said in pain.

"Stop moving," his registrar told him, placing a gloved hand against his chest, "I've only started irrigation. You're going to need some debridement as well."

"Are you good with Lidocaine?" she then asked, seeing how impatient the Doctor was.

"Sure. How many stitches do you reckon?" he answered quickly.

"I'd say about twelve."

"That many? Go easy on the Lidocaine, I don't want this to take all night," he said resolutely.

"Doctor, this is going to hurt," Martha tried to warn him.

"I know it's going to hurt, but I want to go home. I've been here for close to 48 hours and I don't want Martin to catch me before...OUCH!"

"I said stop moving! And you might have broken a patient's knee, of course the Head of Clinical Services will want to speak with you," reasoned Martha.

"I probably just broke his..._God dammit!_" the Doctor yelled.

"Remember that saying? That doctors make the worst patients? Well, it's true. Now stop moving, you're the one who said no Lidocaine."

"I said 'go easy on the Lidocaine', not 'no Lidocaine'. Am I paying for something I've done?"

"You know, you just might be. And you're at my mercy after all," Martha half joked. She could tell the Doctor wanted to leave the hospital quickly, and she was pretty sure the main reason was his son, and not the top brass.

"Why didn't you wait for security to arrive?" she asked him quietly, starting her needle work. He sighed, and she saw that he was in pain, but he was no longer complaining.

"I didn't know when they were going to get there. And I thought I could deal with him. I did," he answered shortly, his teeth set.

"Yes, but he could have hurt you quite badly. You behaved rashly." He winced and closed his eyes.

"You're sure you don't want another injection of Lidocaine?"

"No," he answered stubbornly.

She worked in silence for a while, trying to be as gentle as possible, but then thought of another subject of conversation. This was the perfect occasion to get the answers she wanted.

"What's with you and Clara?" she asked innocently, and saw him open his eyes widely.

"What do you mean?"

"You've been bickering," she told him, trying to hide her smile.

"We have not," he answered grumpily.

"You have, she told me on the phone."

"What did she tell you?" he asked her worryingly, raising himself with his elbows.

"Lay back! And relax, she just told me you were infuriating. Nothing new there, really," she deadpanned.

"Well, _she's_ quite insufferable," he answered, a little piqued.

"You know who you two remind me of?" she asked, unable to hide her grin, now.

"Don't," he pleaded, already knowing her answer.

"Amy and Rory," she told him, disregarding his sentiment, "And you know what I said about them."

"Yes, you've made that clear. Are you almost done? Or are the verbal and physical torture going to last for much longer?"

"I'm almost done, let me just put some gauze. Remember to have the stitches taken out..."

"...in eight to ten days, yes, I remember, and I'll do it on my own, thanks."

Martha had to convince the Doctor to let Clara drive them home. He hadn't even wanted to change into something else, giving as a pretext that only his white shirt was bloodied, not his dark blue jumper. She capitulated and left him in Clara's care, since she knew her friend would actually be more than capable of dealing with him. She made herself a mental note to call Clara soon to get her side of the story, and went in search of Amy and Rory to see if their patient indeed had a temporal lobe aneurysm, like the Doctor had predicted. He was certainly right. Just as she knew that he had certainly shattered the man's knee.

Clara could tell that the Doctor was in pain in the car. Frankly, the idiot deserved it. He had quite simply terrified his son, who sat in the back, looking subdued. The Doctor waited until they'd reached the house to talk to him.

"Are you alright?" the boy asked, visibly still shaken by everything that had happened at the hospital. The Doctor tried sitting at the kitchen table, but changed his mind, and leant against the dishwasher instead.

"Yes, don't worry, I'm fine," he answered, even though Clara could tell that his side hurt him. But she had to admit that, like everything else, he was good at masking it.

"What was wrong with the man?" Sam added, standing up as well.

"I'm pretty sure he has an aneurysm which is pressing down on the part of the brain which controls how we deal with our emotions. The amygdala. That's why he was so violent and incoherent."

"Can it be fixed?"

"I'm not sure," the Doctor answered honestly, "if he's had it for too long, some of the damage might be permanent. But we can help him deal with it at least."

"Okay," Samuel said, not looking that much relieved.

"Sam, if you want to ask me anything about what we discussed in my office..."

"It's fine," the boy answered bravely, with a crooked smile, "Can I go up to do my homework?" he asked, even though it was a Friday.

"Sure, and we'll have dinner soon, yeah?" the boy nodded, and walked upstairs.

Once he had disappeared, Clara saw the Doctor drop his shoulders and sag ever so slightly against the appliance. He walked slowly towards a drawer and reached inside for some pain medication. He swallowed two tablets straight up and closed his eyes.

"I'm going to change, I'll be right back and we can discuss dinner," he told her, limping to the staircase.

_Discuss dinner_, Clara thought in consternation. Right. She paced the kitchen for a few seconds, opened the fridge out of habit, and did it a second time when she realised that she hadn't even been looking the first time. She sighed, and decided that she needed to talk to him. Now.

She didn't pause when she reached his bedroom. She realised once she was inside that she hadn't even knocked and that he stood in the middle of the room half naked. Well, bare chested really. Nothing too drastic. Even though it took her a few seconds to remember what she had come up to tell him. The Doctor raised his eyebrows in question, but otherwise didn't look too affronted or embarrassed by her presence.

"I knew there was a lecture I was missing," he deadpanned, which only irritated Clara more, but at least reminded her why she'd barged into the bedroom in the first place.

"Are you out of your mind?" she asked him in a voice that she hoped wasn't too loud. When the Doctor looked as though he might answer in the positive, she moved closer to him.

"I don't mean in general, because clearly, I do believe that you are, but I meant your stunt at the hospital."

"My stunt?" he repeated, non-plussed.

"What else would you call that? Getting into harm's way and starting a fight in the middle of the ward?" Clara added, facing him.

The Doctor shrugged, since he had already received remonstrances on that subject. He looked at the torn clothes in his hands, and seemed to wonder if he should try to clean them and mend them or simply get rid of them. Undecided, he threw them in the hamper and turned back towards Clara, who had observed him in silence, but was clearly not done with him yet. She had never seen that side of his personality before. The sarcastic, blasé one. Just as she had never seen the man he had turned into after the patient had attacked him. The only adjective she could think of at the time was 'feral'.

"Doctor, you can't do that anymore," she tried to tell him calmly, approaching him once again.

"What do you mean?" he asked, startled, changing his mind about opening a drawer to reach for a clean shirt.

"You've got Sam to think about, now. You can't just run head first into danger and hope that everything will turn out alright. You're all he has. What would have happened if that man had seriously hurt you?"

The Doctor clearly looked as though he hadn't been expecting that particular kind of lecture. He stood still in silence, his eyes fixed somewhere behind Clara, lost in thought. He didn't see her move right into his line of vision but he did feel her hands on his bare shoulders and turned back towards her instantly.

"He's just lost his mum, and he has no one else. You scared him a lot, Doctor. I had to physically restrain him from running towards you when the patient stabbed you," she told him quietly. When he lowered his eyes self-consciously, she slid her hands automatically to his chest, to force him to look at her.

"What happened to you? What happened to you to make you feel that you had to sacrifice yourself?"

When she felt his heartbeat accelerating under her fingertips, it finally dawned on Clara that what had started as a light touch was now basically a caress. But she couldn't make herself remove her hands. As he stared down at her and she saw again that look in his eyes, the one she'd seen the previous morning in the living room, she chose to follow her instincts this time. She stood on her tiptoes and the Doctor met her halfway.

It was definitely not a peck, and it was definitely not innocent. The kiss went from curious to hungry in a split second. Tongues and teeth clashed while hands roamed. Sighs turned into longing whimpers. Clothes had clearly started to come untucked and those were obviously man's hands on Clara's behind. And there was no way to know how far the kiss would have taken them if Clara's own hands hadn't skimmed his bandage as they slid down his chest.

"Sorry!" she whispered against his mouth, feeling his wince on her lips.

She quickly removed her hands from his chest and the Doctor removed his from her lower back.

"Sorry," she repeated even more quietly, taking a small step back but still able to see in the Doctor's bright blue eyes that he feared she was now apologising for the kiss. To reassure him that this wasn't the case, she placed her hands one last time against his heart, smiled, and told him she was going to the kitchen to make dinner. _Dinner_, the Doctor thought in consternation. But he cleared his throat, and said he would be right there.

Said dinner was a very quite affair, unsurprisingly. They ate their food mechanically, and had similar thoughtful expressions on their faces. Sam was lost in the memory of the events at the hospital, Clara in the ones that had taken place upstairs, and the Doctor in both. They said goodnight once the table was cleared, since it was already quite late and they all looked in need of sleep.

But Clara didn't believe she'd be able to sleep anytime soon. When she rolled out of bed still dressed after a few minutes and saw on her way downstairs that light was still shining behind both the Doctor and Sam's doors, she made the - sensible - decision to go and speak with the boy. She felt a little guilty for not having sat with him ever since they had come back from the hospital. She had managed to soothe him whilst they were waiting for his father to get stitched up, but she knew he would need to talk about what had happened some more. What had happened in the corridor, and in the Doctor's office before that.

When she knocked and got no answer, she quietly opened the door, thinking that the boy had fallen asleep with his light on. But when she saw the empty room and the opened window, she understood quickly that something was very wrong. She ran to the Doctor's bedroom, knocked loudly and opened the door before he had time to answer. He was still dressed at least, but looked a little anxious at seeing Clara back in his bedroom so soon.

"Doctor, Sam's gone!"

"What do you mean, he's gone?" he asked, going from nervous to terrified in a matter of seconds.

He walked back with her to his son's bedroom, and did a short circuit around the furniture before running downstairs and looking into every room.

"The window..." started Clara.

"Yes, I saw that, and it's not high, he could have easily jumped, I know all that," he ranted, running from room to room and calling out for his son in vain.

"The Tardis!" she exclaimed, knowing that the boy might have taken refuge there.

"Right," the Doctor agreed, finding the keys and taking the time to quickly put on a coat and handing Clara her own.

But the houseboat was empty, and the Doctor started pacing the quiet street. Clara was trying to think where the boy could have gone at such a late hour.

"_Shit_, I thought... I really thought he believed me, at the hospital," said the Doctor, who looked helpless but couldn't stop moving in every direction.

"He believed you, it's not that," said Clara, sure of herself.

"Then what is it?" he angrily asked her.

"It's his mum, he's thinking about his mum, I know it," she told him, not minding his behaviour, since she was just as anxious as him to find Sam.

"Oh, great. So maybe I should take a cab to Heathrow and check when the next flight for Egypt leaves?" he sarcastically declared, and Clara realised that this side of him came out when he felt scared and cornered. She looked up at Sam's open window and replayed in her mind everything she knew about the boy's mother.

"I think I know where he might have gone," she suddenly realised, "Kensington Gardens," she added, and started walking, the Doctor following.

"What? But it's surely closed at this hour!" he reasoned.

"I know, that's the point!" she answered, starting to feel guilt slip into her thoughts. The statue, the story, this was all her fault! But at least they had somewhere to look for him, and they walked in silence at a rapid pace. Clara tried to remember the streets they had taken on that day to come home, thinking that they might see him on the way.

"Now, what?" said the Doctor, out of breath, once they had reached the closed gates.

"Look, the wall isn't very high for us over there. And he's small enough to have fitted between the bars next to the gate," she pointed out. As Clara was deciding how she would get to the other side - there was no way either of them would fit between the bars - she finally noticed that the Doctor was as white as a sheet and holding his side.

"Doctor..."

"I'm fine," he interrupted her, "You go first and I'll be right behind you. You go and find Sam, okay?" he asked her, holding his hands to give her a leg up.

Clara frowned, but did as he told her. She tried not to put too much of her weight on him when he lifted her up, and she jumped quietly inside the garden. She started walking in the direction of Peter Pan's statue, knowing that the Doctor would want her to get to Sam quickly and that he would follow her. She wasn't paying much attention to her surroundings, and when she realised that someone was standing beside her, she thought it was a warden.

"Lovely evening for a stroll," said the man, who was clearly either drunk, or high, or both. Clara didn't pay attention to him, and kept on walking resolutely. But he was following her, and saying unintelligible things she mostly chose not to hear. When he started grabbing her elbow, she felt another presence beside her.

"You fuck off, mate," said the Doctor darkly, "Now's _really_ not the time."

The drunk man probably had three stones on the Doctor, but he still backed off very quickly. The Doctor was a force to be reckoned with when he turned into that different person. The one Clara had already seen at the hospital. And this time, she also noticed that his Glasgow accent was more pronounced.

"Sorry, man. Didn't know she was your missus. No harm no foul, eh?" the drunkard pleaded, scampering away.

She'd have to ask him one day who this persona was, exactly. But now clearly wasn't the time, as he had pointed out. Nor was it the time to tell him that the side he was holding had started bleeding. She could still read danger in his eyes, despite the dark.

"Come on," he pressed her, limping ever so slightly.

When they reached the bench near the statue, they both breathed a sigh of relief when they saw Samuel sitting down and looking in their direction. But Clara felt the Doctor hesitate. He wasn't sure if he should move forward, now.

"Come on, Doctor," she repeated his previous words, and took hold of his upper arm, feeling that he needed both moral and physical support to reach his son.

"I'm sorry," was the first thing the boy said, looking up at them both pleadingly, "I know I shouldn't have done that, and I'm sorry."

"Are you okay, Sam?" asked Clara quietly, still holding onto the Doctor's arm. He nodded quickly, and looked at his father.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to scare you or anything, I just... I was trying to remember mum's voice, and I couldn't, so I came here."

Clara could tell that the answer didn't make much sense to the Doctor, but he still stooped down on one knee. The movement looked painful and he sighed deeply once he was at eye level with the boy.

"I didn't know your mum very well compared to you, but you can come and see me if you want to talk about her. I would love to hear about all your travels, you know" he told Sam.

"We travelled a lot, that's true. And she was a really really great mum. But now she's gone, and..." the boy stopped, not knowing how to voice his fears.

"She's gone, but it doesn't mean that you have to forget about her, Sam. She can always be with you, and you have all your memories of her. I know it's not the same as having her beside you, but we'll learn how to make it work, okay?" Sam nodded, and Clara could tell he desperately wanted to believe his father's words.

"And, you know, if you want to, I'm pretty sure there are videos somewhere on the internet of your mum talking at conferences and stuff. We could look for them. That way, you won't forget her voice."

"Yes, that would be great!" the boy said excitedly.

"Okay. But can we go home, now?" the Doctor asked in a slightly pained tone.

"Sure. I'm sorry, I won't run away again."

"Good," the Doctor replied, standing up with difficulty, so Clara helped him. He smiled at Sam to reassure him when he saw that the boy was frowning.

"Let's try to head back without being arrested by the warden, yeah?" he added.

Clara noticed at the same time as the Doctor that the boy had started shivering whilst they were walking back to the gate. He wasn't wearing a jacket, and the March night was cold. The Doctor put his duffel coat on the boy's shoulders, and he almost disappeared inside the sleeves once he put it on.

"Dad, you're bleeding!" Sam exclaimed, and stopped walking.

The Doctor no longer had a coat to hide that fact from the boy, and Clara saw him silently curse himself. The white shirt didn't leave much to the imagination, but at least he didn't seem to be losing too much blood.

"It's okay," he answered, holding his side tightly, "I think I just ripped out a couple of stitches. Martha will be furious with me, but it'll be fine until tomorrow."

"You're sure?" asked the boy seriously.

"Yes Sam, I'm sure," answered the Doctor, leading the boy forward by resting his left hand between his shoulder blades.

"Okay, dad. But you can lean on me if you need to," said the boy, raising his head to look at him. And this time, Clara could tell that the Doctor had heard the word his son had used.

"Thank you, Sam," he told him, smiling, and left his hand where it was.


	4. Chapter 4

He hadn't had any nightmares in a while. Which was a good thing. But then, that was probably because he hadn't been sleeping properly. Tonight, his scar was also itching. He still needed to wait for a couple of days until he could get the stitches out, and he knew the itching part was only starting. He felt like taking them out right now and be done with the whole thing already, but he probably wouldn't hear the end of it from Martha. She hadn't been very receptive when he'd tried to explain to her that the reason why she was redoing her needlework was because he'd jumped over Kensington Gardens' wall. On a more positive note, things had been going a lot better with Sam these last few days. He hadn't tried to run away again, and he hadn't punched any other kid at school. They'd been spending some more time together, and the Doctor even felt that his altercation with the patient who had given him his scar had made the boy somewhat clingy. Well, clingy compared to his usual behaviour. The Doctor didn't mind, and relished all the time he could now enjoy with his son, but he did feel rather guilty every time he had to go to work and leave the boy behind.

And then, there was Clara. The Doctor refrained from scratching his side and clenched his fists. It was always like that: each time he thought about the young woman his scar felt itchy and he had to physically restrain himself from rubbing the bandage. And each time his fingers unconsciously skimmed over it, he replayed their kiss in his mind. Which made him think that the itching was mostly psychosomatic. But being aware of it didn't help in the slightest. He sighed, and turned over. It was barely three o'clock and he needed to get some sleep. He then made the mistake of picturing Clara lying in the next room. This prompted his decision to go downstairs and cool off. There was just no way he would be able to fall asleep right now.

On the way down, he thought he heard something coming from behind Sam's door. He stopped in his tracks, and listened more carefully. It sounded as though he was mumbling something. The Doctor opened the door quietly, and walked towards his son's bed. The boy was twisting and turning over the mattress, his duvet discarded and laying on the floor. He was clearly having a nightmare, but the Doctor couldn't make sense of the words he was saying. He kneeled down and laid a hand on Samuel's shoulder, shaking him gently.

"Sam, wake up," he whispered. The boy twisted some more, but didn't open his eyes.

"You're having a nightmare, Sam," he added, resting his other hand on the boy's sweaty brow. When the Doctor saw tears starting to leak from his eyes, he shook his shoulder once more and called out his name in a louder voice.

"Dad!" yelled the boy, finally opening his eyes and automatically reaching for the Doctor as though he had expected him to be there. He flung his arms around his neck and hid his face against his chest. He was shaking and his back felt clammy under the Doctor's soothing hands. His heart always skipped a beat when his son called him like that, and he secretly hoped that he would never get used to it.

"It's over Sammy, it was just a bad dream," he told the boy in a calm voice, holding him closely.

"You're alright!" the boy marvelled, out of breath.

"Of course I'm alright, I'm right there."

"But you were..." the boy started in a small voice, then stopped himself.

"What?" the Doctor pressed, trying to disengage himself from the boy's hold to look into his eyes, but he wouldn't relinquish his grip around his neck, so he didn't insist.

"What is it, Sam?" he asked once more, in a whisper, feeling that his son was finally breathing normally.

"You're not going to leave, right?" he said against his T-shirt.

"Of course not," he tried to reassure him, stroking the unruly hair at the back of his neck.

The Doctor was at a loss, and couldn't think of other soothing words, so he settled on hugging the boy tightly and wait for him to calm down. When Sam eventually raised his head, his eyes were still teary and red, but no longer unfocussed. The dream had let go of him.

"Why don't we go downstairs and get some water?" the Doctor asked, and his son nodded.

He followed him docilely to the kitchen and thirstily drunk the glass he handed him. He could tell from experience that Sam wouldn't be able to get back to sleep just yet, and that talking about his nightmare would probably help. But he had to find a way to make him focus on something else, first.

"Let's go to my office," he suggested, having come up with an idea.

Sam didn't ask for an explanation, and sat on the couch. He knew that the boy liked spending time with him whilst he was working, and that he would feel safe there. The Doctor didn't turn on the light deliberately and asked his son to slowly walk to the French window and come and sit on the floor next to him.

"What is it?" he asked in a whisper, understanding that the Doctor wanted to show him something.

"Just stay very quiet, and keep your eyes glued to the grass outside," he answered in a similar tone.

The full moon was probably only a couple of days away, which meant that their eyes adjusted very quickly to the semi-darkness outside and managed to pick up clear shapes. They both saw the two foxes at the same time, and the Doctor smiled when he felt Sam jump in surprise against his shoulder.

"Oh, I seem them, dad!" he whispered, but couldn't hide his amazement.

"Are those foxes?" he added, his eyes following the animals' movements.

"Yes, they come every night. There's a lot of them in the neighbourhood, it seems."

"They're beautiful, and so quick!"

They observed the two playful creatures, who chased each other on the grass, and didn't seem aware that they were being watched. Or maybe they knew but didn't care. When their game was over, they left the garden and presumably went in search of another playground.

"Do you think they were brothers, or something? Or maybe father and son?" asked Sam, turning towards him. He was smiling, and his nightmare seemed to be the furthest thing from his mind, now.

"Yeah, maybe," the Doctor answered.

They eventually stood up from the carpeted floor and the Doctor managed to lead Samuel back to his bedroom. The boy needed to sleep, and he didn't complain on the way up. He sat on the bed next to him once he was under the covers.

"Do you often have nightmares?" he asked calmly, looking directly into Sam's eyes.

"No, not really. I just had one or two, recently," he answered, looking at his hands resting on the duvet the Doctor had picked up from the floor.

"If you have another one and you want to talk about anything, just come and find me, okay? I really don't mind." The boy smiled slightly, nodded, and the Doctor stood up.

"Dad?" he called him back once he had almost reached the door. The Doctor froze at the name, but managed to turn around.

"Do _you _have nightmares?"

"Of course, everybody has nightmares," he told him gently.

"And are they really bad sometimes?" he added.

"Yes, sometimes they are."

"Am I in some of them?" The question surprised the Doctor, but he knew he had to be honest.

"Yes, you are. Not all of them, but you are," he answered earnestly. Sam didn't look troubled by that answer, which reassured him.

"So what do you do when that happens?"

"I get out of bed, and I make sure that you're still there," he couldn't help but tell him.

"I never heard you."

"I'm very very quiet, I don't want to wake you."

"That's okay, you can wake me if you want. If you need to know that I'm alright," the boy told him, and the Doctor felt like his heart would shatter in a thousand pieces. But he managed to smile crookedly and prevent tears from escaping his eyes.

"Thank you, Sam. I'll keep that in mind. But usually just seeing you under the covers is enough for me."

On the way back to his bedroom, the Doctor couldn't help but feel guilt overwhelming his thoughts. Sam didn't use to have nightmares, and he knew that the events that had taken place at the hospital a few days before had been responsible. It was all his fault. He probably shouldn't have told him all those things about his mum. Or played the hero with the patient, like many people had pointed out to him. But the Doctor came to the selfish conclusion that nightmares, he could deal with. His son hating him on the other hand, he simply couldn't. And this realisation was even more palpable now that he had been granted a glimpse of what filial love might be.

Clara had a hard time getting up the next morning. It was a Saturday, and she had planned on seeing Martha for lunch. The Doctor didn't have a shift until Sunday night, and she knew Sam would probably spend the whole weekend following his father around. They'd become almost inseparable in the last few days. She should probably find it worrying, but Clara thought that the boy needed to learn how to trust the Doctor. And apparently, according to Sam, this started by making sure his father didn't disappear any time soon. Or consciously place himself in harm's way. His stunt at the hospital with the violent patient had been moronic. But at least, it had triggered a kind of reversed survival instinct in the child. The Doctor's approach to parenting would - and should - probably horrify psychologists and specialists in the education field, but Clara had to admit that it worked.

The only problem really was that this new development meant that she now rarely found herself alone with him. Although it was perhaps for the best. They hadn't behaved awkwardly since their kiss, but they hadn't mentioned it either. Clara hadn't been able to stop herself from imagining what could have happened if she hadn't - stupidly - forgotten about his injury. With Sam in the next room and expecting dinner at the time, she reasonably expected that they wouldn't have gotten _that_ carried away. But it didn't mean that she wouldn't have enjoyed taking things a little further. Or that she wouldn't enjoy a repeat performance now.

She hadn't planned any of this - falling for her employer, no less - but now that they had taken that first step she realised that they had been moving in that direction since the very beginning. There was no arguing that the Doctor was one of the most wonderful and intriguing people she had ever met. So what if he was twenty years older than her? The heart could behave curiously and stubbornly, after all. Clara didn't regret the kiss, and she didn't think the Doctor regretted it either, but the status quo wouldn't hold for very long - she was certain of it. Someone would crack, and Clara was pretty sure it was going to be her.

She dreaded seeing Martha for that reason. The Doctor was bound to be one of their subjects of conversation, and she didn't think she would be able to hide anything from her friend. She knew her too well. Clara expected her to be very much against any development between her and the Doctor - he was her boss, after all - but she was also the best suited to help her make up her mind on the matter, since she was the only person she could turn to who knew the Doctor.

Sam and his father were already having breakfast when she came down. It was always a silent affair for them, and Clara refrained from bombarding them with questions about their plans for the day. She then went to the living room with her cup of tea in order to read her emails on her laptop, and the Doctor came in to tell her a little while later that he was going aboard the Tardis with Sam. He had started trying to fix the engine once again, and he seemed to spend all his free time on the houseboat with his son when he wasn't at work. When she reminded him that she was having lunch with Martha, who wasn't on call for once, he looked at her a bit strangely. He seemed worried, Clara thought. As though he knew perfectly well what they were going to talk about, and she saw him reach for his scar. But she smiled reassuringly and wished him a pleasant day.

The restaurant by the canal the Doctor had suggested was indeed very nice. Clara was more used to going out to pubs with friends, but she had to admit that lunches in trendy cafés weren't all that bad. Especially since it meant catching up with Martha.

"So, when are you going to tell me?" the young surgeon asked, in the middle of their respective salads.

"Tell you what?" Clara hedged, knowing what her friend was probably referring to but wanting to make sure. She was amazed that she had managed to hold on for so long.

"You know what - you and the Doctor. What happened between you two? One minute you're fine, then you're bickering like teenagers and now you both have that vacant look in your eyes every time I mention either of you to the other."

Clara stayed silent, pondering her answer. She didn't want to lie to her friend, but she didn't want to tell her something the Doctor would be embarrassed about.

"I mean, if I were to guess, I'd say either something very _good_ has happened or something very _bad,_" Martha continued.

"And what would you define as 'good', exactly?" Clara wondered, fearing her answer.

"Well, you tell me," said Martha, putting her fork down and crossing her arms. She didn't look angry. In fact, Clara thought she looked amused.

"What did the Doctor tell you?" Clara said, hoping she wouldn't make a gaffe.

"Nothing, you know how he is, he almost never shares anything personal. But he did tell me that things were going a lot better with Sam. Although for the life of me, I don't know why twelve stitches seem to have done the trick."

"Don't ask me, I'm just as surprised as you. It's true, though. Samuel and him are doing great, they're spending time together and they seem very close, now."

"The Doctor _did_ say that you helped him a lot. And that it was in great parts thanks to you that him and his son were getting along. But he didn't tell me _how_ you helped."

Clara smiled at the compliment, even though it hadn't come directly from the Doctor's mouth. It still meant a lot to her that he had said so. She must have blushed, because Martha interpreted it as something different than gratitude.

"Did you two... Did you sleep together?"

"No. Well, not...not _yet_. But I think, I mean, we..." Martha looked more puzzled than horrified, which was certainly a good thing, but she still interrupted her friend.

"Clara..." she started, sighing.

"I know, he's your boss, he's a lot older than me and I will only complicate things for you two at the hospital, I'm sorry," Clara rushed in to say.

"No, it's no that," added Martha, shaking her head sadly, "I mean, yes, you probably shouldn't, but you're both adults and the Doctor won't be my boss forever, it's just..."

"What?" asked Clara, frowning, not knowing why her friend sounded so hesitant all of a sudden.

"Just be careful, Clara."

"Yes, I'm probably in for a world of pain and heartbreak..." she joked half-seriously.

"I don't mean you," interrupted Martha in a quiet voice, "don't rush into this blindly."

"Are you asking me not to hurt him?" Clara asked, surprised.

"Yes, basically," Martha answered, smiling slightly, but her tone was still cautious.

"I've known the Doctor for a while and I'm sure that you've also noticed how...well, I won't say 'fragile', because he's mentally stronger than anyone I've ever met, but emotionally?" the surgeon added, hoping that Clara would understand her meaning.

"You're right. He's... He's been hurt before, I guess," Clara said, aware that she knew more about the Doctor's past than Martha, but choosing not to reveal it out of respect for his wishes.

"Don't get me wrong, Clara. You're my friend, and I don't want you hurt either, but... I can't help but think that he has a lot more to lose in this situation than you. I mean..."

"I know what you mean, Marth. Don't worry. I won't take any decision lightly and I'm not planning on creating any tension for you at work, I promise. I'll be careful, I owe him that," Clara said earnestly.

"He deserves to be happy, you both do. And if being together makes you happy then I don't see what's wrong. He's a wonderful man, and Sam and him need more love in their lives, as trite as that may sound."

"They do. And thank you, Martha. For trusting me instead of judging me because he's old enough to be my father or something." They both sniggered quietly at that, and resumed their meal.

"You know, if he wasn't my boss and if I wasn't perfectly happy with Mickey, I might have been tempted to do something. Handsome, super-smart and rich. What's not to like?" Martha added a few seconds later, staring thoughtfully at a radish. When she saw the look of surprise and yes, distinct jealousy on her friend's face, she burst out laughing.

"Relax, Clara, he's all yours. Here, have some more sparkling water."

The Doctor hadn't expected Clara to come back from her lunch with Martha looking so...peaceful. He thought she would try to put some distance between them now that she'd had a talk with her friend, but she did the exact opposite. She kept smiling serenely at him and behaved as though nothing was amiss. He could tell that she had made up her mind about something. And that this something concerned him.

On Wednesday afternoon, taking advantage of the empty house, the Doctor decided to take out his stitches. He'd had them for ten days, and he'd made sure the wound had healed properly before arming himself with sharp scissors and a pair of surgical tweezers. It shouldn't have surprised him that his young au pair would choose that very moment to come home. Given the half-startled, half-amused expression on her face when she entered his office a few minutes later, he imagined that he was quite a sight.

"What are you doing?"

"I thought it was obvious," he answered, his chin holding back his T-shirt in order to see what he was doing.

"But why are you doing it here?" she added, her arms akimbo.

"There's more light here than in the bathroom," he told her, gesturing to the magnifying lamp he kept on the table next to the couch in order to study some patients' results.

His T-shirt slipped - _again_ \- and he groaned. He was only halfway through and he had to pick up Sam soon before heading to the hospital for his night shift.

"Here, let me help," declared Clara, walking resolutely towards him.

She gripped the bottom of his shirt and lifted it over his head. The Doctor had no choice but to let her do it, since both his hands were occupied, but he still looked at her self-consciously when she was done. Clara didn't seem the least concerned and apparently didn't realise - or mind - that she'd basically just taken his shirt off. She then sat at his feet and peered up at him expectantly, waiting for him to tell her what she should do next. His rampant imagination got even freer reign over all his other thoughts when she unaffectedly announced that her hands were clean.

He realised that he must have been staring at her stupidly for too long when she raised her eyebrows in question.

"Right, I'm... I'm almost done, can you hand me over the gauze?" he managed to ask her.

The Doctor then went back to his task, and it took him a lot more time to cut the few remaining knots with her staring up at him than it should have. He had to concentrate very hard in order to prevent his hands from shaking. This was ridiculous, he thought. The girl probably didn't realise that she was teasing him and here he was having all those...disruptive ideas. But when she started applying a fresh bandage over the reddened scar, he reassessed the situation and came to a different conclusion. She _had_ to be doing this on purpose. There was no way dressing a wound should feel so sensual.

When she was done, she didn't stand up. She was still looking at him expectantly and the Doctor knew that he only had to lean down a few inches for his lips to touch hers. It would have been the easiest decision in the world, and _God_ he wanted to. His whole body thrummed at the very thought of kissing her again. But in the end, it wasn't his apprehension at yielding to his desire that made him pull back, but rather the desire he saw reflected in Clara's brown eyes. His own wantonness he could understand. He was familiar with it - even though the young woman evoked feelings inside him he hadn't experienced in a very long time. But the sizzling passion he saw in her burning stare was utterly alien to him. He couldn't explain it. It shouldn't be there. It was illogical.

So he stood up, slowly, and told the startled Clara that he had to pick up some groceries on the way to school and had to leave now. He knew she didn't believe him, but he dearly hoped that she hadn't felt as though he was rejecting her. Because he wasn't. He just had to think and come up with an explanation for her behaviour.

Martha noticed how distracted he was, that night. Hell, even Sam had picked up on it but probably hadn't known how to broach the subject. His young registrar kept glancing at him curiously and he was glad they didn't have any emergency surgery, otherwise he would have been a liability. They settled down in his office for their usual midnight tea and she'd barely sat down at his desk when she started talking.

"Did something happen at home? Is it Sam?"

"No, Sam's fine, he's doing great."

"Then it's you and Clara. What happened now?"

The Doctor knew Martha hadn't meant to sound so exasperated, but she was probably getting tired of their antics nonetheless. Clara and him both turned to her when something was wrong and playing the go-between was always a thankless job.

"I'm not sure. I think I made a mistake," he started telling her, scratching his scalp mechanically.

"What do you mean?"

"She probably thinks I'm being obtuse, but I'm not doing it on purpose."

"What are you talking about?" she pressed, frowning. There was no beating around the bush with Martha, especially after a twelve-hour shift.

"I don't think she knows what she's doing. And I don't think I should let her."

"She's not a clueless teenager, Doctor," Martha told him, knowing that she wasn't merely defending her friend.

"I know that," he acknowledged.

"And Clara always knows what she's doing. Has she ever proved differently?"

"I guess not, but..." he stopped, thinking over his words.

"What's scaring you, Doctor?" she asked him quietly, interrupting his thoughts. She wouldn't have felt comfortable asking him such a personal question a few months ago. But she realised that no one else would. The Doctor refrained from childishly answering that he wasn't scared of anything, and though he looked piqued, he seemed to take her words into serious consideration.

"I can't see any positive outcome. And believe me, I've looked at all of them," he eventually settled on telling her.

Martha smiled sadly, aware that it would be difficult to argue with that, especially since the Doctor was probably telling the truth when he said that he had studied the whole situation from every possible angle. He always did that, after all, for every aspect of his work. But Martha hadn't known that he would do the same for his personal life, although it shouldn't have come as a surprise.

"You deserve to be happy, Doctor. You, Sam, Clara - all three of you," she repeated the words she'd told her friend a few days before.

"And sometimes, happiness isn't logical," she added, knowing very well that such an answer would never satisfy the Doctor. She still felt she had to say it, though.

Clara was certain that the Doctor was avoiding her. He hadn't been avoiding her after their first kiss, but now, after their almost second one, he undoubtedly was. And if it had been difficult before to find herself alone with him, it was damn near impossible now. Two days had passed since the...she couldn't really call it an _incident_, could she? At first, she had simply thought that her forward attitude had spooked him. She couldn't blame him for being nervous, after all. And yet, his aloof behaviour told her otherwise. When he dared looking at her, she saw weariness and regret in his eyes. A quick call to Martha confirmed her fears. Her friend hadn't told her in so many words what the Doctor had confided to her, but she could read between the lines.

The Doctor had taken Sam to school that morning, and he had another night shift in the evening. Clara was pretty sure that he was taking so many night shifts partly because of her and his wish to avoid her. She did wonder when he found the time to sleep. Even when Sam wasn't with him, he still spent the rest of his free time aboard the Tardis to try and fix the engine. She could see him now, from the kitchen window, tinkering away on the deck, even though it was pouring down with rain. The idiot must have been at it for more than an hour, already. She knew that she should probably wait until she cooled off before mentioning her call to Martha and the information she'd gleaned. But burying her head in the sand wasn't her style. So she sighed deeply, put down her empty cup of tea, and walked towards the houseboat, similarly paying little mind to the rain.

"Clara, do you need anything?" the Doctor asked her in surprise, as soon as she came aboard.

"No."

"Then what are you doing here?" he added, frowning, finally standing up from his crouched position over the engine.

"I wanted to talk to you," she told him, regretting that he was now once again towering over her.

"Now? It's raining."

"Yes, I've noticed. Have you?" she couldn't help but point out, seeing up close how drenched he looked.

"I'm working," he answered, and Clara didn't know if it was his way of explaining why he was staying outside despite the downpour or if he was dismissing her.

"I still need to talk to you," she insisted.

"Right," he sighed, "let's go below deck, then."

"No, let's talk here," Clara decided, blocking his way.

"But it's raining."

"I know."

They stared at each other, the Doctor seeing no way out either physically or metaphorically. Clara crossed her arms, and tried to ignore his childish behaviour. The Doctor put down the screwdriver he had been holding, realising that this might take a while.

"So, what do you want to talk about?" he eventually asked, having a hard time resisting shaking off his rain-soaked hair now that both his hands were free.

He looked contrite and Clara guessed that he had decided to resort to his default mode of passive-aggressive behaviour. But she wanted him to take part in the conversation, to say what he felt. Even if it meant angering him in the process.

"Just got off the phone with Martha," she started, "she told me something interesting."

"Did she?" He sounded like he was barely listening.

"Yes. Apparently, you think I'm a naïve, clueless girl who doesn't quite know what she wants or how to behave around you."

"What? I never said that!" So maybe Clara was using poetic licence there, since Martha hadn't actually used those words, but she had gotten the reaction she wanted from the Doctor.

"You agree that I know what I'm doing, then?" she asked, walking closer, daring him to say otherwise.

"I... I didn't say you didn't know what you were doing. But..." he hedged, walking backwards.

"But what?" she pressed, erasing the distance he had put between them. He couldn't back down indefinitely, lest he wanted to fall in the canal.

She had worked herself up to this state. She was furious, even more furious than when she had been on the phone with her friend. Clara was starting to scare herself - her anger was taking over and she didn't know how to stop. The Doctor seemed to notice her predicament, and when he felt the side of the houseboat against the back of his knees, he had no choice but to physically stop her from walking straight over him.

"Clara, wait," he told her calmly, placing his hands on her shoulders. When she finally looked up at him, her eyes no longer blinded by rage but rather by sorrow, he removed them quickly, fearing she wouldn't want to be touched at a moment like that.

"Listen, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have talked to Martha behind your back, it wasn't fair. But I never said I thought you were clueless or naïve, I swear. I fear I'm the clueless one in this situation," he told her sincerely, his tone pleading.

"I wish I knew what I was doing. I wish I could simply close my eyes and pretend that everything is going to be okay but I can't, because it's impossible," he added, and his irises looked almost transparent to her.

She was starting to feel how cold the rain was, and she tried not to shiver under his unblinking, earnest stare. He seemed to have completely forgotten about the weather, and was only intent on making her believe him.

"You don't know that, Doctor," she said quietly, hoping he could see the truth behind her words in her own eyes.

"I _do_ know that everybody eventually leaves." Even though he hadn't chosen to add the word "me" at the end of his sentence, Clara still heard it.

"But that's life. It's about taking risks, it's about being hurt," she reasoned.

"The good never outweighs the bad, Clara. At least, not in my case."

She sighed audibly, knowing that they were now at a standstill. She slowly approached him once more, dreading his reaction. But this time, he didn't stop her, nor did he stop her hands from resting against his heart. Clara could tell that he remembered their kiss. He watched her hands moving imperceptibly against his drenched sweater and Clara pretended that her fingers were once again in contact with his skin.

"If, for once in your life, you could stop yourself from analysing every possible outcome of every possible decision, what would you do?" she asked, staring at her hands on his chest.

"But I can't," he told her sadly, "I always see in advance how bad things will go, it's like a curse."

"Alright, but what if? What if it wasn't like that? Just tell me," she insisted, needing to make sure.

"If it wasn't like that?" he repeated, raising his eyes towards the rain, "God, if I wasn't so fucked up, I'd just grab you and never let you go. To hell with consequences."

Clara smiled, and felt her cheeks heating up despite the cold temperature. That was what she had wanted to hear. Well, something along those lines, anyway. She gazed up at him and he seemed startled to see how happy she looked.

"Will you give me a chance, Doctor? Just one. I think I already proved to you with Sam that I am more often right than wrong, so you owe me that," she bargained.

She knew he couldn't disagree with her logic. She was beating him at his own game and he had no reason to refuse her. He searched her eyes for the right answer and Clara knew she had won even before he started nodding his head in acquiescence. She smiled even more widely and slid her hands around his neck.

"Won't you let me in?" she asked him playfully, raising on her toes.

"You're already in, Clara," he admitted bashfully, leaning down.

"Then what's stopping you?" she breathed, her lips millimetres from his own, forcing him to initiate the first contact - which he did, heartily.

The kiss built up slowly. It wasn't exactly tentative, but they still took the time to learn the curve of each others' lips. Clara shuddered when she eventually granted him access and felt his tongue against the roof of her mouth. The change after the contact of his cold lips was palpable and she yearned for more warmth. He smiled when her hands slipped on his wet face, and Clara decided that nothing had ever tasted better than the amused shape of his lips against her own. She tangled her hands in his hair and her hunch regarding their softness - even in their rain-soaked state - was confirmed. He groaned longingly, prompting her to keep her hands where they were and he helped her in her ministrations by unceremoniously pulling her closer to him.

The Doctor started placing kisses against her neck and Clara gasped when she felt him lingering on a spot next to her ear. They hadn't been kissing for five minutes and he already seemed to know all her secrets. She pulled at his hair and reclaimed his mouth, intent on showing him that two could play at this game. She kissed him deeply and playfully bit his lower lip at the same time as her hands laid claim of his behind. The Doctor's hungry exhale against her mouth was proof enough that he didn't have to lead the dance, and in fact seemed quite willing to let her do what she liked. He peered down at her with eyes that were both fiercely wicked and shyly guarded and leaned his forehead against hers.

Clara managed to untuck his drenched shirt and slid her hands against the smooth skin of his back, mindful of his right side this time. He copied her movements and held her even closer against him. When they both shuddered at the contact and distinctly felt how far they'd already gone, Clara suggested they went downstairs. The fact that the Doctor didn't correct her misuse of vocabulary and merely nodded signalled to her that he didn't intend to stop anytime soon. _Good_.

She walked in front of him below deck, his right hand in hers, although she shouldn't have worried that he would escape. He didn't waste any time and started kissing her again longingly, his cold hands against her inflamed cheeks, when they reached the middle of the room. The inside wasn't a lot warmer than the outside, but at least rain was no longer falling over their heads, and Clara reasoned that they had already started generating their own kind of heat. The Doctor was shivering slightly under her roaming hands, and she attributed his reaction to the cold, which gave her the necessary excuse to remove his clothes. He certainly didn't complain when she grabbed the bottom of his sweater and pulled it over his head with his T-shirt.

Her fingers travelled everywhere while his tongue swept languidly against hers. She could count his ribs but his shoulders were strong and his abdominal muscles clenched reflexively when she lingered teasingly at the waistband of his trousers. He stopped her hands from moving lower and put them back around his neck. Clara smiled, and didn't interpret his gesture as a rejection since she'd recently discovered how much he liked feeling her fingers running through his hair. She scratched his scalp with her short nails and he inhaled sharply. He walked her backwards and Clara felt a counter against her back. The Doctor hoisted her up on it as though she weighed nothing. It was her turn to groan in pleasure when he pushed his hips against hers and she crossed her legs above his waist, trapping him. But once again, she could clearly feel that he wouldn't dare walk away from her.

"Doctor..." she whispered, loving the way his hands dug at her sides, and the way his warm tongue travelled along her collarbone.

She was still weaving her fingers into his soft greying curls, and started moving against him, her breath coming in short gasps. She let him remove her sweater and when her hands were free once more, she cradled his face and kissed him urgently. Clara knew she wasn't going to last if he kept pressing his centre against hers. He marvelled at how his hands almost completely encircled her waist then seemed to catch her drift. Suddenly, her bra was gone and her breasts were pressed against his chest as he picked her up again. She tried to untangle her legs from his lower back but he wouldn't let her, and she moaned deeply when she felt his hands keeping her firmly in place by pressing on her bottom. When he started walking slowly, she thought she would come right there on the spot from the sheer overdose of contact: his hardness against her centre, her chest against his, his fingers low on her back and his tongue inside her mouth. She barely had time to wonder at his dexterity before she felt a soft bedcover under her. _Oh, good._ Horizontal was definitely good.

In the few short seconds that it took the Doctor to remove his shoes, socks and trousers, Clara managed to collect her fuzzy wits and start breathing somewhat normally again. She took off her boots and smiled slyly at him when he looked down at her once more. It was time to regain control of the situation. She let him crawl back over her then visibly startled him by using her legs to switch their position on the mattress. He gasped lustfully when she pressed her breasts once more against his chest and toyed with the darker patch of hair at the back of his neck.

"Hey," she said shyly, even though her lower body was moving wickedly against his.

"Hey," he repeated, equally bashful, his hands tangling in her hair to see her face properly.

She could read in his eyes that he would gladly relinquish all control to her if she wanted to. And that if she wasn't sure about what they were about to do, he would stop.

"Yes?" he asked simply.

"Yes, Doctor," she replied, and brushed her lips against his in order to prove him she meant it with all her heart.

They kissed languidly for a few seconds, Clara stroking his tongue with hers. When the Doctor slipped his hands inside her trousers and grabbed her arse cheeks, she pressed her lips more forcefully against his. She regretted not taking the time to take off her remaining articles of clothing, especially since the Doctor's boxers left little to the imagination. She started planting small kisses on his chin, neck and chest and she felt him freeze when she reached his scar. It was still red and the skin was slightly puckered, but it no longer looked painful. All the same, she was careful with her tongue when she traced the twelve parallel lines. He reflexively clenched his fists at the contact and muttered a few profanities. Clara felt her own desire pool low in her abdomen at his reaction and she would have gladly continued the journey downwards with her mouth if the Doctor hadn't grabbed her under the shoulders and raised his upper body from the bed.

He kissed her hungrily, sloppily, his teeth clashing against hers and Clara helped him remove her own trousers. He sat back in the middle of the mattress and she straddled his waist, her chest pressed against his once again. They panted against each other's lips, and Clara felt his long fingers slowly sliding up and down along her spine. He stared at her intently when he slipped one hand inside her panties. She couldn't remember anything more erotic than the feel of his fingers against her whilst his eyes dared her to look away. She didn't, but her breath caught painfully in her throat and she whimpered when she saw his expression turn feral as he realised how wet she was.

"Now, Doctor," she stammered, barely managing to get the words out.

He teased her a few more seconds but eventually granted her request. They removed the last cotton barriers, and when he slowly pushed inside her, his hands against her lower back and hers tangled in his hair, they both breathed a sigh of relief. Neither of them moved at first, and Clara enjoyed their position: chest to chest, with their eyes at the same level - equal. She tried to pour all her feelings for him inside her gaze to share them with him, and when she saw his irises turn a shade of aquamarine she had never seen before she beamed, and pressed her lips to his. He kissed her back deeply and with a roll of her hips they began a pace that suited them both.

Clara only had flashes of memories and sensations of their lovemaking. Images and impressions kept assailing her long afterwards at various moments of the day or the night. The way he whispered her name in reverence, the beat of his heart against hers, the feel of his hands cupping her breasts, the touch of his tongue on the spot where her collarbone met her neck, the rumble of his groan when she hooked her legs higher around his back, and the look in his eyes when she came. This, she knew she would never forget. How utterly amazed and stunned he seemed at her crushing orgasm. As though he couldn't quite believe he'd had anything to do with it. Clara nibbled at his slack jaw playfully once she had regained her spirits to force him to snap out of his stupor. This seemed to do the trick, since he started moving once again and she thought she could now detect half-hidden arrogance in his secret smile.

His own orgasm also took him by surprise, and he buried his face in the crook of her neck when his pleasure peaked. Clara felt like he was deliberately hiding this immensely private thing from her, but she didn't have time to protest since the Doctor had sneakily slipped a hand between them and was intent on making her come a second time with him. And she did. Of course she did. Her hands digging painfully into his back and his firmly closed eyes against her shoulder, they both shuddered one last time. Clara knew she wouldn't forget any time soon either his barely audible whimper when it was all over. It was half-pain, half-bliss, and it turned into a contented growl when she moved her hands to smooth through his hair.

The next thing she remembered was the sound of the rain against the side of the boat and the smell of the old feather-duvet the Doctor had placed over them. She would always associate those two things with their first time. That and how cold it was inside the Tardis when they weren't busy creating their own heat. She guessed the Doctor wasn't the cuddly type, but he still gathered her against him and helped her warm her limbs. For such a skinny bloke, he certainly emitted warmth, and Clara forcefully kept his arms around her waist longer than strictly necessary to restore normal body-temperature. She heard him puff against her neck and knew she had been found out.

She turned towards him in the bed, and looked at him as if it was the first time. And in a way, it was. His hair was a mess, his cheeks were red and his smile was genuine - he was gorgeous. She blushed self-consciously in turn, and pressed her head against the mattress, her eyes not leaving his.

"Hey," she told him simply.

"Hey," he repeated.

"Why is it so cold in your bloody boat?" she whispered, as though she feared said boat would rebel against her accusation. He slid closer to her and copied her tone - perhaps he also believed that the Tardis could hear them.

"No heating. I've yet to instal solar panels outside."

"Solar panels in England?"

"They work really well, you'd be surprised. Until then, I guess I'll find you a jumper."

Clara thought he was joking, but he did get out of bed and she barely had time to admire the curve of his spine before he grabbed his boxers from the ground, put them on, and started rummaging through drawers. His face reappeared a few seconds later and he was holding an off-white cable-knit sweater that looked as though it would reach her knees. He handed it to her, and Clara was surprised at how soft it felt against her fingers.

"I still keep some old clothes, here. I'll go and see if there's anything we can eat, I'm starving," he announced, picking up his socks and trousers on the way out.

Weren't men supposed to keel over after sex? Here she was, her limbs still thrumming from the experience while he wandered off with a definite gleam in his eyes. She sighed, but couldn't help finding the situation amusing, and put on the sweater he had given her. It did reach just above her knees and she had to roll up the sleeves a few times before she was able to see her hands. She put on her panties for decency's sake, and went in search of the Doctor.

He seemed just as intent as her not to leave the houseboat yet, and for this she was glad. She feared that reality would come crashing back if they went outside. For now, they could just pretend they belonged inside this strange, happy bubble.

The Doctor did a double take when she appeared next to him at the kitchen nook. She guessed he liked seeing her in his clothes and had probably expected her to wear a bit more. He'd put on his trousers and shirt, his sweater must have been too rain-soaked still. Or maybe he was more used to such temperatures. Clara rubbed her arms, glad that the woollen jumper was keeping her reasonably warm, and she started speaking to stop the Doctor from staring at her bare legs. Even though she didn't actually mind.

"How did you manage to live here without heating?"

"There used to be an old stove, but I got rid of it when I moved into the house. That meant no more boiler either, but I'll fix that once I get the solar panels," he answered, now looking through the cupboards.

"So there's no hot water, then?" Clara asked.

"Right," he told her, then realised what she meant, "but if you want to take a shower, we can move back across the street. I'm sorry, I didn't realise..."

"No!" she said more forcefully than she had anticipated, "No, it's fine," she added in a quieter voice.

"I was just wondering, that's all, I'm fine where I am."

To prove her point, she sat on one of the couches, and pulled the Doctor's jumper over her legs. She smiled at his sudden tender expression, but he quickly turned his back to her and went back to his foraging.

"Well, I'm afraid I can only offer you Cup-a-soup and crackers. But we could..."

"That sounds perfect, Doctor," she interrupted him once more, hoping he would stop suggesting they left the houseboat. She wasn't ready to face the outside world.

He nodded, and set about preparing their makeshift lunch. Clara hadn't seen a clock anywhere, and she realised as they were eating on the couch that she didn't want to know what time it was. Let them worry about that later, for now she wanted to enjoy the sound of the raindrops falling outside and the softness of the sweater on her skin. They didn't talk much but the Doctor kept throwing glances at her. They weren't shy glances either, and Clara smiled playfully at him, feeling her cheeks heating up - she knew it wasn't because of the soup.

When she straddled his waist, his hands automatically came to rest on her lower back, as though it was a position they often found themselves in. She looped her arms around his neck and he gazed at her with a puzzled expression on his face.

"What?" she asked self-consciously, and would have moved away if the Doctor hadn't pressed her more closely against him.

"Nothing," he answered, his surprise replaced by wonder, "I just... really like this jumper on you," he added, and Clara knew that wasn't what he had meant to say. She searched his eyes and when she was satisfied by what she saw in them, she started ruffling his hair. From there, she barely had time to register his relieved sigh before he crushed her lips to his.

Their second time was less rushed, and they even relocated to the bedroom halfway through. Clara had new sensations to add to her ever-growing list of relevant information concerning the Doctor. Like how he enjoyed her kisses on his breastbone, just over his heart. Or his undignified yelp when she nipped at his jugular. Or perhaps how tightly he clutched her to him when he came with her on top of him.

This time, they both closed their eyes for a little while afterwards. And when Clara woke up, she was greeted by the welcome sight of the Doctor's bare back. She couldn't resist smoothing her hands over the soft skin. Her sleepy lover came to just as she was wondering what those small round scars close to the bottom of his spine were. They looked like burns. But the Doctor didn't let her investigate any further and he turned back towards her. Torpor left his silver eyes quickly, and she read newfound satiation in them. She buzzed at the realisation that she had been partly responsible for that look.

"Why are you called the Doctor?" she asked him a few minutes later, when she had stopped admiring how some of the lines across his face had been erased by their recent activity. He smiled somewhat smugly at her question, and answered in a surprisingly level voice:

"You can call me whatever you want, you know."

She couldn't believe his cheekiness and she opened her mouth in shock at his grin. It was obvious that he also remembered her strangled scream of his name on the couch, although he had been distinctly busy at the time somewhere much lower than her face. He brushed his lips quickly over hers to dispel her annoyance and settled back on the mattress.

"I don't know," he started, "I had so many names over the years that I decided to settle on something a bit more meaningful, I guess," he added honestly.

"But all those articles you published and that I saw in your office..." Clara said, frowning, although the Doctor didn't look surprised that she had found them - he hadn't exactly been hiding his medical journals.

"Yeah?"

"They're all under the name John Smith."

"Well, I did have to pick up a name for that, my editor wouldn't have let me use 'the Doctor'." She chose not to comment on the fact that he had the use for an editor, and pressed on.

"So it isn't your real name?"

"Of course not, who would call their child like that? I'm sure there are a few real John Smiths out there, but no, it was never one of my names."

"What is it, then?"

"I told you, I don't have one except the Doctor."

"Yeah, but..."

"Does that really bother you? That I don't have a proper name?" he interrupted her, slightly worried now, and Clara regretted her question.

"No, don't be silly, I was just curious. I thought I'd somehow deserved to know a bit more. But I don't need to, especially if you like it when I call out your name," she purred playfully, her hand against his cheek in order to soothe his frown.

"As I said, as long as it's me you're referring to, you can use any name you want," he proclaimed, a small carefree smile back on his face.

They stared at each other for a few more seconds, and the Doctor seemed to come to a decision. He slid a hand on his new favourite spot low on her back, and spoke in a tone that was more serious and grave than she had anticipated in such a setting.

"I never knew my parents, and never knew their names. So what people chose to call me afterwards didn't hold much meaning to me. It even changed frequently over the years, depending where I ended up. When I was old enough and realised that I wanted to become a doctor, I decided that it was the only name that actually mattered to me. The only name that could and would define me. So I took it and made it my own."

His eyes were shining, and Clara felt how achingly important this revelation was. She gave him a trembling smile and moved as close as she physically could. His hand against her back was clenched, and his jaw set.

"Then it is the only name I need, Doctor. And I'm proud to be able to use it," she exhaled against his mouth, and he could taste the truth behind her words.


	5. Chapter 5

He was running. Very fast. He could hear his feet pounding the pavement. And when he looked down, he realised that his legs were a lot shorter than he had expected. His knees were scratched and scarred. This didn't make sense. Why wasn't he wearing long trousers? His breathing was loud, and panicked. And...distinctly childlike. What was he running from? Why was he so scared?

The dream changed and he could now see things from the outside. For it was indeed a dream, he was certain of that. But he couldn't wake up. And he didn't want to anyway. He wanted to know what the small boy with the skinny legs and the short trousers was running from. How old was he, six? Seven? He thought he recognised the plastic sandals. Everything was in black and white, but for some strange reason he was sure that they were green. The boy looked up at him, and that's when he realised that _he_ was the thing the child was running from. Just before he woke up, he saw grey eyes looking back at him. Grey eyes that held pure terror.

The Doctor sat up in bed. The images swimming in his head were already giving him a headache. He hesitated between forcibly letting the dream go and holding on to it. _"O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space - were it not that I have bad dreams_._"_ Shakespeare always had to have the last word, it seemed.

He hadn't dreamed about his childhood for a very long time. But the eyes, at the end... He couldn't be sure. Was the boy supposed to be him or Sam? He felt the pressing need to check, even though he didn't quite know how he would set about doing that. He decided his first stop would be his son's bedroom - just a quick look - then his feet took him downstairs to his office and to the bottom of a drawer he rarely opened. He picked up the cardboard box - it was heavier than in his memory - and sat on the couch. As he rummaged inside, he noticed that his hands were still shaking. He breathed in deeply, then turned on the light.

It took him a while to find what he was looking for. He'd forgotten he had kept all those things. He'd often thought about throwing them away but like almost everything else in this house, he never got the nerve. He put the box on the floor, and stared at the two pictures. Why did he have to actually look for them? He knew every detail - they hadn't been erased from his memory, no matter how hard he had tried to make them go away.

He jumped when he felt the cushion sink lower under his weight, and turned towards Clara. How long had he been staring at the pictures? She looked wide awake, and for a second he feared that it was morning already and that he had been sitting there feeling nostalgic for hours. But a quick look outside reassured him: the back garden was still bathed in darkness.

"Sorry, didn't want to spook you," said Clara, a careful smile on her face.

The Doctor had the childish urge to hide what he was holding from her. But it was too late, she was sitting too close and had probably already seen the pictures.

"Can I see?" she asked him, and he felt immensely grateful. Looking into her earnest eyes, he could tell that she would gladly pretend not to have seen anything if he wanted her to. This realisation more than anything else made him hand the two pictures to her.

"I'd forgotten what a scrawny wee thing I was," he felt compelled to say, his voice still scratchy from sleep.

Clara was looking at the oldest picture with a somewhat tender expression on her face. The little boy was sitting on a bench somewhere warm and sunny. The seaside, probably. His small feet didn't reach the ground and he had apparently recently scraped his knees. But he was smiling, and he seemed to enjoy the wind sweeping through his curly hair.

"Where was it taken?" Clara asked, trying to look for clues in the background.

"Ayr, probably. I must have been five or six. The nuns took us to the beach sometimes, during the Summer. But we had to wear those dreadful sandals," he added, seeing the plastic shoes from his dream. The picture was in black and white, but he still remembered their awful green colour. And the way they hurt your toes, and made you slip on the pavement.

"The nuns?"

"I didn't stay at that place for very long. But yeah, believe it or not, I spent a few years at an orphanage run by nuns."

The Doctor tried to introduce a note of levity, but it didn't seem to work. Clara looked as though she had hundreds of questions she wanted to ask him but thankfully, she started studying the other picture. She seemed less taken by that one, and frowned. He was a few years older. Older than Sam. Twelve, he thought. Gone were his curls and he wasn't smiling. He stood ramrod straight but wouldn't look at the camera. The only act of defiance he could allow himself.

"You can clearly see Sam in the first one, it's uncanny. Not so much in this one, though," she finally said, her eyes still fixed on his younger self.

"They cut our hair close to the skull at the homes. Because of lice, apparently. I hated it," he admitted.

"So that's why you've now decided to forego the hairdresser completely?" she asked, with a small smile on her lips, looking at his tousled mane.

"Yeah, probably," he answered, glad that she was following his example regarding pleasantry.

They sat in silence for a little while. Clara was still studying the pictures, holding one in each hand. She smiled a little sadly and eventually handed them back to him. He put them in the box, and thought about replacing it in the drawer, but he rested his head against the back cushion instead, and closed his eyes.

"Nightmare?" asked Clara, moving closer.

He tried to open his eyes to look at her, but the feel of her hand slowly running through his hair made him change his mind. He'd let himself enjoy this, her touch, for a few seconds. But no more than that.

"Yeah," he admitted, his eyes still closed, "how did you know?"

"I thought I heard you say something in your sleep," she answered, her voice soothing.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

"Don't be, I was reading. You didn't wake me."

Clara kept weaving her fingers into his curls. _Just a few more seconds. Then I'll get up, and go back to bed. Alone_. He sighed, and once again wondered why they had decided to limit their physical contacts to the houseboat. They hadn't even talked about it. But it had felt natural at the time to give their relationship - whatever it was - geographical boundaries. Waking up alone during the night was when the weight of his decision was the hardest to bear. He knew it was because his defences were down, and that he would come to regret his choice come sunrise. But her hand in his hair... This didn't actually count, did it?

"I heard you check on Sam before you came down," she added. Her other hand was resting on his shoulder, and he could tell that if he were to merely graze her lower back, she would be on his lap in a heartbeat.

"Habit," he acknowledged. He'd always found it hard to be anything but honest when she was so near. When he could feel her warm breath against his cheek. And smell her barely there magnolia perfume. He turned his head towards her, and slowly opened his eyes. Her warm smile and equally warm chocolate gaze didn't help.

"I'm going back to bed," he announced.

"Okay," she answered in a similar level tone.

But neither of them moved. Her left hand had slipped to his chest while her right was still smoothing through his hair. He realised that his own fingers had started running small circles on her knee. He'd allow himself one kiss. Just one. Clara seemed to read his mind, and her inviting lips were over his before he had time to finish his last thought. She tasted like home. Endless and familiar. He pulled away reluctantly and stood up. One kiss was enough, right? How wrong he was. But he still chose to believe it. He had to.

"I think I'll be working here, tomorrow," she told him just as he was reaching the threshold. He looked back at her, and saw her knowing grin. He couldn't help but copy it, and nodded, already looking forward to the next day.

"Night, Clara."

"Good night, Doctor."

If he had known in advance what the next few days would be like, the Doctor wouldn't have stopped after one kiss. Oh, no. He would have dragged Clara to the Tardis in the middle of the night. Hell, he would have taken her to his own bed, and gladly closed his eyes at the consequences. Instead, he virtually spent a week at the hospital and barely saw either his son or his new lover.

The case had started simply enough on Tuesday morning. And the Doctor was confident he would manage to steal a few hours with Clara on the houseboat that very afternoon. But he should have known - making plans had never been his forte. The ten o'clock surgery was an elective. He had already operated Tony Banks twice over the last eight years. Each time for a maximally debulked low-grade glioma. And now, the tumour was back, and of a much more malignant nature. Tony was very much aware that he would die of cancer within the year. But the Doctor believed that by removing the tumour, his last few months would be a little more comfortable. And perhaps he'd even get to spend some more time with his wife if the surgery was successful.

He knew from the start that the operation would be tricky. And he thought Tony and Anna had understood the risks. The oncologist had been less enthusiastic than him - and rightly so, it now transpired. But the couple had wanted the surgery. No, they had been adamant. He knew it all came down to trust. They had trusted him over the years and the surgeries had been very successful. Until then.

Because of the last two operations, him and his team would have to be wary of scar tissue. Their vision would be severely impaired, and ripping a critical artery was a high possibility. Martha hadn't needed to remind him that a tumour in the medial temporal region was bad news. One wrong move and they would find themselves in Broca's area, thus wrecking the patient's speech.

All things considered, the Doctor was glad that both his trainees had been present. He hoped that at least, the experience and its outcome had cemented the risk factors into their young minds. Afterwards, Rory had started to doubt his vocation for neurosurgery, and he didn't blame him. Wrecking someone's brain was probably one of the most traumatic experiences in medicine. Especially the first time it happened. It wasn't the first time for the Doctor, but he still felt horrible.

"Doctor, you need to eat something."

It was Martha. The first night after the surgery. He was sitting on the floor in the surgical ward and faced the theatre where it had all gone wrong. He liked spending time there. It was very calm since the patients were already half-anaesthetised by the time they got behind the double doors. Of course, emergency surgeries did take place sometimes, and everything would then briefly turn into a flurry of motions, sounds and colours. But it was always over very quickly. Once the patient was rolled into theatre, peace and quiet reigned once more in the corridor.

"I'm not hungry," he announced, looking up.

He wasn't wallowing in self-pity. He'd seen all his patients. He'd checked on Tony. Three times. Each time just to make sure he had indeed irrevocably fucked him up. But still he would go back to the corridor and to his spot on the ground. Martha was used to his antics - it wasn't the first time he behaved that way after a disastrous surgery.

"You should go home and get some rest. I'll cover your on-call," he told her, his eyes fixed on the automatic doors facing him.

"I'm staying, I sent Rory home. With Amy."

"Are they...together now?" he queried.

"No, I don't think so. But she'll be the best suited to convince him to give neurosurgery another shot."

The Doctor sighed. Martha was right, but he also knew that Rory would need more time to make up his mind. Being a neurosurgeon wasn't just about being a skilled and knowledgeable physician. It was about finding the courage each day to come back for more. There were more miracles than in other specialities, perhaps. But they were counterbalanced by the sheer number of abject tragedies.

"Doctor, it's still early days..." she started, but the Doctor interrupted her.

"You know that's not the case, here. You know as well as I do that we didn't take enough of the tumour out before the striate vessel started bleeding. After I nicked it."

"You can't be sure it was your fault. There was so much scar tissue, much more than we had anticipated. You couldn't see anything," she tried to reason him.

"I know what I did, Martha. And I know it was close to impossible to avoid any sort of bleed. But I did cause serious damage to his brain. He won't ever get his speech back. Or recover movement on his right side. And he will still die of cancer in less than a year."

Okay, so maybe he was feeling a _little_ sorry for himself. Martha's comment regarding "early days" should have taken him in consideration instead of their patient.

"I'll be fine, Martha, don't worry," he told her as sincerely as he could when he saw her disarmed expression, "I'll go check on the patient one more time, then see if I can make myself useful in A&amp;E."

"Alright," she answered, resigned, knowing that she wouldn't be able to make him go home just yet.

The next few days passed in a blur. He would regularly go to ITU to see Tony and suffer in silence when Anna, his wife, deigned looking at him. Her sense of betrayal was hard to miss. Then he would go about his day and deal with his other patients as if his last surgery had never happened. He knew from experience that it was the only way he would be able to operate again without doubting himself. And still he went back to his spot in the corridor, several times a day. He might only have a couple of minutes to spare, but still he made the pilgrimage.

Sometimes he slept for a few hours in his office, and sometimes he ate the food Donna and Martha brought him. He went home at dawn, when all the wards were quiet, and allowed himself a few precious minutes of normalcy having breakfast with Sam. Clara had asked him if he was alright the first time she saw him after the surgery, and he'd lied. She didn't ask a second time but she would always smile serenely at him when he managed to get a glimpse of her. As if to show him that everything would be okay. He would then spend a few seconds drowning his thoughts in the shower, and drive a silent Sam to school. He'd told the boy he had a difficult case at the hospital, and that seemed to be sufficient an explanation for him. The Doctor wasn't sure if he should be relieved that he didn't ask him any question or worried.

He'd volunteered to cover Rory's shift for a while, to give the young man time to think things through. Amy had protested, saying that she should be the one to do it, but the Doctor knew his trainee wouldn't last more than three days if she were to cover both Rory's shift and hers. And he needed her rested in case they had an emergency.

Martha kept pestering him to go home for real already, and spend some time with Sam (and Clara). But every time the Doctor heard his son's laughter in his mind or felt the ghost of his lover's lips against his cheek, he was overwhelmed by guilt. How could he face them after such a failure? How could he enjoy their presence when a patient was laid down on a hospital bed, mute and immobile, because of him? He didn't deserve to see them. He had to stay there and help fix people. He had to pay for his mistake somehow.

He'd lost track of days. Was it Friday? Saturday? He knew it was after midnight, because he was supposed to be covering for Rory in A&amp;E, but there weren't any actual emergency, so he'd decided to spend a few minutes in the surgical ward corridor, for a change. His eyes were fixed on the grey linoleum, and he heard footsteps coming towards him. Unhurried footsteps. He saw two pairs of feet arrive in his line of vision. The Doctor recognised Martha's sensible boots. And the blue canvas shoes definitely did ring a bell. Especially on such small feet.

"Sam?"

The boy rushed to sit on the floor next to him and Martha left with a half grin on her face before the Doctor had time to formulate another question. He felt his son curl up against his side and he automatically raised his arm to grant him better access. Sam rested his head against his shoulder, and the Doctor let out a long slow breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding in these last few days.

"I had a nightmare. A bad one," his son told him in a small voice, and all the pressing questions the Doctor had escaped him.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sam," he replied, and rested his arm across the small body to hug him against his side.

"You weren't home, so I came here," the boy added against his chest.

The Doctor looked at him more closely and could see that he was still wearing his pyjamas under his heavy winter coat. Which was when he realised for the second time that it was the middle of the night. Questions were crowding his mind, and he didn't know where to start. But when he felt the small bundle sigh in relief against him, he decided that the only thing that mattered was that the boy was safe and unharmed. He'd worry about the details later. For now, he would just hold his son and bring him comfort. Everything else could wait.

It was a few minutes before the Doctor felt that the boy was calm enough to answer a few of his queries. He hadn't moved from his spot against his chest, but his breathing was more regular.

"How did you come here?" he asked, his hand now resting atop his son's head.

"I took a cab. I used the money you leave next to the phone for emergencies."

"Where did you find a cab at this hour?"

"On Warwick Avenue, near the house. Clara said there's always cabs, there."

_Jesus, Clara._

"Does Clara know you're here, Sam?" he asked his son in a voice that he hoped wasn't too panicked. But the boy seemed to pick up on his tone, since he raised his head to look at him.

"No," he admitted, sheepish, "I left without telling her, she was asleep."

The Doctor sighed, and reached for his phone in his pocket. No messages. He hesitated calling Clara. She was probably still asleep and would only worry and feel guilty if he told her that Sam had left the house in the middle of the night without her knowledge.

"I'm sorry dad, I didn't want to cause any trouble. But you said I could come and find you when I had a nightmare, and you weren't there. Are you mad?"

He hated seeing his son looking so worried, and he had indeed told him to come to him if he needed to. He couldn't blame him for that. The Doctor put his phone back in his pocket, and decided not to say anything to Clara. If she woke up to discover Sam gone, she would probably call him first thing. But he hoped she didn't notice that the boy had left.

"It's okay, Sam. I'm not mad," he reassured his son, ruffling his hair, "I just don't like the thought of you alone in a cab at this hour."

"The cabbie was really nice. I told him I would go straight to you once we arrived at the hospital. He wanted to walk inside with me, but I said I'd be alright. And he still waited until I was in before he left."

The Doctor knew he needed to have a talk with his strong-minded, adventurous child. A nine year old shouldn't be roaming around London in the middle of the night. But now wasn't the time. Now was the time to go home. He felt a different kind of guilt assailing him: whilst he had been brooding here over his patient and his failure as a surgeon, he had failed at his other duty, that of being a parent. He should have been there for Sam. He might have felt like he didn't deserve to see him, but his son definitely deserved better from him. He had behaved foolishly - gone were the days when he could allow himself such egotistical behaviour. Sam depended on him, and if he was completely honest, this realisation was a surprisingly pleasant one. And put things into perspective.

"Are you ready to go home, Sammy?"

"You're really coming home?" asked the boy, uncertain.

"Yes, I'm really coming home. There's nothing else I can do for my patient," he admitted, and they both stood up from the floor.

"I'm sorry about your patient. Martha told me the surgery went wrong, but that you shouldn't blame yourself because it wasn't your fault," Sam told him seriously, as they made their way to the stairs.

"Oh, she did, didn't she?"

"Yes, she found me in A&amp;E before I had time to walk up to your office. She said she knew where you were and explained everything. And she also said that she would cover your shift for you this weekend."

"Right," said the Doctor, thinking that he should find a way to thank Martha later. A big way.

"Let's make a stop at my office so that I can pick up my stuff then we'll go home, okay?" he added, and the boy nodded. He also made himself the mental note to buy Sam new sets of pyjamas: these were far too short, especially if the child intended to leave the house in the middle of the night with them again.

Clara woke up to a very quiet house on Saturday morning. It wasn't a rare occurrence - the house was almost always quiet. She rolled over on the mattress and sighed, realising that she wasn't in any rush to leave her bed. Sam wouldn't be up for a while, and she'd probably have to agree to his demands to go to the hospital, today. The boy clearly missed his father, and she couldn't blame him. Truthfully, she missed him too. Martha had repeatedly told her on the phone that she shouldn't worry, and that the Doctor often brooded for a while after a failed surgery. But she hoped he would do his brooding here, so that Sam and her could help him, or at least spend some time with him. The Doctor probably wasn't used to sharing his feelings, let alone admit that he needed other people. Even though Clara knew that she wouldn't magically make him see differently on the subject, it didn't mean that she wouldn't try.

She sat up, and contemplated the situation more closely. Martha had advised her to give him some time. According to her, he would eventually snap out of his lethargy. It wasn't as though he wasn't doing his job, after all. And he'd been there every morning this week to take his son to school. Sam clearly needed more from his father than a shared breakfast and a car ride, but the boy was too reserved to admit it. They might have never known each other until a few months ago, but they were definitely made out of the same mould, she thought, smiling slightly. Stubborn and self-reliant to the point of ostracism. Samuel had barely spoken to her, these last few days. But he'd seemed fine and a quick check with one of his teachers yesterday when she picked him up had told her that he'd been his usual studious, quiet self in class. The only time the boy had actually talked to her was when he'd asked her if they could go to the hospital. He'd started asking her two days ago, and she wouldn't have the excuse of school to give him, now. She didn't know why she was so reluctant to take him. But it might have to do with the fact that the Doctor probably wouldn't want his son to see him in such a despondent state. He'd put on a brave face, each morning. And he almost convinced her that he was fine. Clara had hoped the Doctor would have worked out his issues by the weekend, but it looked like she would have to go against his wishes and bring Sam to him.

She probably should feel angry at him. After all, he'd basically left her to deal with his son on her own. But she had a hard time blaming him, and not because she was now sleeping with him. He had made tremendous progress with Sam, but their relationship was still in its infancy. She had started getting a better picture of what the Doctor's life might have been like until his son came along. They did talk a little about his past aboard the Tardis. And even though many of her realisations were based on conjectures, she was convinced the Doctor was doing his very best. He had never learned how to depend on other people. He probably never even had the opportunity to do so. What might look like selfishness to other people was basic survival instinct for him.

When she finally went downstairs, she made sure to go about making breakfast quietly. It was only eight o'clock, and Samuel needed all the sleep he could get. But a startled noise escaped her when she came in the sitting room with her cup of tea. The sofa she had wanted to sit on was occupied. The smallest form was taking most of the space and looked peacefully asleep, while the other had stretched its long legs on the coffee table. She winced sympathetically at the odd angle of the Doctor's neck. _This would definitely hurt later_. He must have been sleeping lightly, because he opened his eyes when she came closer.

"Morning," Clara whispered, smiling at his puzzled expression.

"Morning," he mumbled back, his voice gravely.

He moved his head slowly and grimaced at the pain, but seemed relieved to see Sam still deeply asleep next to him. He started massaging his neck with his hands, and put his feet on the ground. Clara heard a few joints crack and noticed the remains of a midnight snack on the table. She also wondered why Sam was using his winter coat as a blanket but refrained from asking the Doctor.

"Why don't you try and get some more sleep upstairs? It's still early," she suggested in a quiet voice.

"I'm awake now. But I don't know if I should move Sam," he answered, standing up carefully.

"He looks fine where he is, let him sleep."

"Yeah, you're right," he whispered, looking at the sleeping boy with a tender expression on his face.

"Breakfast?" she asked him, gesturing to the kitchen.

He turned back towards her and Clara felt her cheeks redden at the warmth she read in his eyes. He looked wonderfully rumpled and inviting but she settled on holding her tea mug.

"Breakfast sounds great," he agreed with a carefree smile, and she resolutely walked back to the kitchen, the Doctor following.

She sat at the bar and watched him move slowly around the room, preparing coffee with practised gestures. He seemed to gradually become more aware of his surroundings and looked perfectly awake by the time he sat next to her. She was amazed by his resilience: he couldn't have possibly slept more than a few hours here and there these last few days, and yet he looked ready to conquer the world. It was as though he'd found a new source of motivation somewhere.

"So, I was thinking..." he started, after his first sip of coffee.

"Yes?"

"Have you ever been to the restaurant at the Shard?" he asked.

"The new tower by London Bridge, you mean?" she answered, puzzled.

"Yes, the very one."

"I didn't know there were restaurants inside. But the view must be amazing," she said, still unclear where their conversation was going.

"It probably is, and I heard the food's good," he paused, then added smoothly, "I think we should go there for lunch, Sam would love seeing London from up there."

"Isn't that the kind of place where you have to make a reservation weeks in advance?" she wondered out loud, frowning.

"Undoubtedly."

"And absurdly expensive?"

"That, too," he admitted, smiling.

Clara waited for him to make his point, but it wasn't coming.

"So... You want to go there, because?"

"I know the chef," he answered, shrugging, "he's been pestering me about coming for six months. I did agree to operate on his wife when no other surgeon would. And she's fine, now. I guess he feels grateful," he added cheerfully, standing up.

Clara observed him putting things in the dishwasher and wiping the table. She had a very hard time formulating her answer. Where had the man who'd been torturing himself over something that wasn't even his fault gone? When had the Doctor decided that he should stop focusing on his failures? What had changed since yesterday? Her surprise must have been written all over her face, because the Doctor eventually sat back down and started nervously playing with his refilled cup.

"I feel bad, about last week. I don't think I handled the situation very well with my patient," he raised his eyes to hers, "or with you and Sam."

"It's okay," she told him, grasping his hand, "you're here, now. You came back."

"Yeah, but I should have done that sooner," he sighed. He looked at their joined hands and stroked Clara's knuckles almost absently. She gripped his fingers, forcing him to look at her once more and snap out of his gloom.

"So, are you sure you're going to get us a table at the restaurant on such short notice? Think the chef's gratitude will extend that far?" she asked him playfully, and was rewarded by his smile.

"I think so. I'll call him once Sam's awake."

He stared at her eyes more closely, and Clara felt her face heat up once again. He was still holding her hand and she had the sudden urge to burrow her face against his neck.

"I missed you," he admitted in a quiet voice.

"I missed you, too," she answered, equally bashful.

The confession was a difficult one for the both of them, but Clara felt relieved that it was out. She hoped they'd soon have time to sit down and talk. Properly. But at least he was home, and he didn't intend to go back to the hospital just yet. She did wonder what had made him change his mind, but she was pretty sure it had something to do with Sam sleeping in the next room instead of his bed.

The Doctor had been right on both counts: he did manage to get them a table for lunch at the sought after restaurant, and his son was very much taken by the view, especially since it was a clear, sunny day. He had looked nervous at the idea of riding up in an elevator to the 31st floor of the tower, but the Doctor had wisely kept him talking during the climb, and asked him about his classes and his forthcoming three-day school trip to Cornwall. Samuel was the youngest patron by far, but he'd behaved admirably except for a few exclamations of wonder at the London sights his father pointed out to him. He expressed wishes to visit various places, and Clara could tell that the Doctor was pleased at the prospect of spending more time with the child. It obviously meant a lot to him that Samuel was starting to make himself at home in the city.

The food was indeed delicious, and Clara had the distinct impression that the Doctor's choice of restaurant hadn't only been meant to impress Sam. He kept throwing curious glances at her, just to make sure that she was having a good time. He was clearly trying to make it up to her and apologise for his behaviour. Her serene smiles eventually seemed to do the trick, and he had relaxed by the time their main courses arrived on the table.

The chef came to see them after desert and insisted on waiving the bill despite the Doctor's protests. They exchanged a few pleasantries and he shook both her hand and Sam's. His parting words left the Doctor blissfully confused, but he chose not to correct the other man's assumptions and merely thanked him once more.

"You know what?" the Doctor told her once they were back outside, Sam happily listing all the monuments he wanted to see up close before they went home, "The chef was right. I _do _have a lovely family."

Clara answered his smile with one of her own, even though her heart was hammering in her chest and her mind was brimming with questions.

His words stayed with her the whole afternoon, and she kept wondering what he had meant. Who was she to him exactly? It was a lot easier to define her relationship with Sam, but the fact that she didn't know where she stood with the Doctor frightened her. She had thought it would be easier all around if they didn't put a label on the time they spent together on the Tardis. Clara knew it had never been only about sex, but as she was walking around St James's Park with her shoulder rubbing against the Doctor's and Sam pointing at Buckingham Palace excitedly ahead of them, she realised how painfully she'd fallen for the two of them. And how hard it would be to let them go if she was forced to.

Sunday was spent in a quieter fashion at home with books and homework in the living room. The Doctor had built a fire to Sam's delight, and the boy asked to know everything about Arthurian myths and legends ahead of his trip that was to take place at the end of the week. She could see how thrilled he was about visiting new places with his class, but his behaviour also spoke of nervousness. The Doctor had let her talk about the Knights of the Round Table, Sir Lancelot, Merlin and the like from what she had studied and read along the years. She could tell he would have been fine discussing the subject with his son himself. Clara wouldn't have been surprised to learn that he knew a lot more about middle English literature than her. But he settled on listening to her speak and observe Sam from behind his medical journals. He was undoubtedly equally nervous at the prospect of Sam leaving for three days. It was the first time he would be away since he'd arrived in London.

Clara was in a weird mood by the time she came aboard the Tardis early on Monday afternoon. Her appointment with her thesis supervisor hadn't gone as she had expected. She found the Doctor sitting cross legged on the floor below deck, with his back against the couch and his eyes studying a complex user manual of some kind. From the big cardboard boxes piling up next to him, she surmised that he had received his coveted solar panels. She sat on the couch behind him, and he turned towards her when he heard her sigh.

"What's wrong?" he asked, immediately picking up on her mood.

"Nothing," she lied, shrugging.

"Was it something your supervisor said?" he insisted, discarding the manual, "You were supposed to meet him this morning, right?"

It always surprised her that the Doctor took the time to remember all the little things that were going on in her life outside the house. After all, he had plenty of other stuff to worry about with his own work and Sam.

"Yeah, we had an appointment. And it went fine, it's just..." Clara wasn't sure if she should bother him with her existential crisis. She was probably slightly exaggerating, but it was only this morning that she had accepted her revelation for what it was.

"What?" the Doctor pressed, looking up at her.

Clara searched his eyes and saw that he was focusing his attention entirely on her. She felt undeserving but touched. The Doctor had never made her feel as though her studies and work didn't matter. Which was a lot more than she could say about many of her friends and family, who didn't take her doctorate's degree very seriously.

"This is going to sound stupid," she hedged, looking down at her hands self-consciously.

"I'm sure that it won't," he told her, placing his hands tentatively on her knees. She looked back at him, and could see that even though his tone was confident, his gesture wasn't. His fingers barely touched her legs, as if expecting her rejection. She found courage in his hesitation, and put her hands over his.

"I don't know if I want to be a university teacher anymore," she admitted, with a lopsided smile.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm not sure teaching British literature to twenty-year-olds is what I want. I think I'd rather teach younger pupils," she told him slowly, choosing her words carefully.

"And what's wrong with that?"

Clara laughed nervously but realised that his question wasn't ironical. He watched her carefully and Clara knew her answer had to be sincere.

"I should have decided that sooner. Otherwise, my thesis is pretty much useless. I did it in the first place to teach at university. I can't change my mind now, it's too late. My supervisor will laugh at my face if I tell him," she said in a rush.

"You didn't share your doubts with him?"

"Of course not. You're the first person I told, lucky you," she deadpanned, although her heart wasn't in it. She exhaled noisily and looked away, wondering once more why she had decided to burden him with her personal issues. The Doctor stood up and came to sit on the couch next to her.

"Don't you want to finish your thesis?" he asked her after having given her time to gather her thoughts.

"I do, and I will. It's not about that, I just..." Clara stopped, and let her eyes linger on a few items in the room. The ever present books, a woollen jumper the Doctor had probably been wearing at some point this morning, a drawing Sam had made the last time he'd been there... She felt safe, here. She always had. It was her refuge and the place she found comfort and yes, love, from the Doctor. She didn't need to lie about who she was, there.

"I think I've realised that helping young children discover how wonderful and rich the English language is would be far more rewarding than discussing the parallels between Freud's theories and Peter Pan's refusal to grow up with students who already think they know everything."

The Doctor nodded, letting her continue.

"I'm pretty sure Sam helped me come to that realisation. I mean, of course, all nine-year-olds aren't as curious and smart as he is, but it's their _thirst_ for knowledge that inspires me. All these years I've been focusing on literature meant for children writing my thesis when I should have been focusing on the children themselves. You're always aware that part of what you do is quite pointless in a doctorate's degree, but I think I hadn't realised how pointless it was until now. I don't want to teach grown ups about children literature. I want to teach children about grown ups literature."

She stopped there and smiled genuinely. It felt good to say all this out loud, she'd never done so before. And now that it was out, she realised how much these words meant to her - there was no going back.

"Let's say you want to do that, then what? You finish your thesis..."

"It wouldn't be that difficult, really. I might need a few classes and some training courses but it's not a whole new different degree. It's just not how it's usually done," she acknowledged, finally coming to terms with her decision.

"So what's stopping you?" he asked her eventually, and Clara could hear his impish smile in his voice.

"Nothing," she told him, and didn't resist her urge to kiss him.

"Thank you," she added a few seconds later, her hands in his hair and his fingers splayed across her back.

"For what?" he asked, bemused, his eyes already swimming with desire for her.

She didn't answer his question with words, and the Doctor didn't complain. She didn't complain either when he set about showing her just how much he'd actually missed her these last few days.

It took the Doctor a few seconds to realise where he was. It was dark, and something had woken him up from a dream. He'd been running again, he thought. He could hear the echo of the plastic sandals pounding on the pavement. Or was it something else? The noise came back. It wasn't running feet, it was a knock on the door. He rolled over in his bed, and mumbled to whoever it was to come in. The knocking came on again, hesitant this time, and he spoke louder. When nothing happened, he grumbled and slid from under the warm quilt.

He opened the door blearily and it all came back to him. It was Thursday night, Sam was leaving the next day for his three-day school trip and he was standing in front of him with his pillow under his arm. He could also see his plush bunny's ears poking out from inside the pillow case, half hidden.

"Can I stay here until the nightmare goes away?" the boy asked, unmoving.

"Of course, Sammy, come in," he told him quietly, leading him inside.

Sam was probably nervous about leaving, he hadn't had any nightmare since the night at the hospital. And if the Doctor was completely honest with himself, he didn't relish the prospect of saying goodbye to his son tomorrow morning either, even though he would only be gone for three days. He hoped his worry hadn't rubbed off on the boy, though.

It was the first time he came to his bedroom during the night, but it didn't take him long to find a spot under the covers on the huge bed.

"Do you want to talk about the nightmare?"

"No."

"Then try and go back to sleep, Sam. I'm not going anywhere," the Doctor said, settling back on his right side.

"Okay, dad," he whispered, his back to him.

He heard the boy move for a few seconds, then sigh. Sam looked tiny next to him, and the Doctor watched him fall back to sleep, his bunny clutched to his chest. The Doctor knew his unwillingness to let him go to Cornwall wasn't reasonable. Sam had told him he had gone on a couple of school trips in Egypt, already. So it wasn't exactly a new experience for him. But it was for the Doctor. And he was pretty sure Samuel hadn't been so nervous the other times. Everything had changed, for the both of them, even though he now felt confident they had found some equilibrium in their new lives. Surely three days wouldn't shatter that. After all, because of his work, they had sometimes gone days barely seeing each others. So why was he so anxious? He even went against the school rules and bought Sam a pay-as-you-go mobile phone to take with him. Just in case of emergency, he had said. Clara hadn't commented but he could sometimes read her like a book. Who was he reassuring by doing that - him or Sam?

He rolled over in bed, trying not to wake his son. The small bundle didn't move, and the Doctor thought that he should wait a little longer until he carried him back to his bed. Just to make sure that he was sleeping deeply. What he hadn't anticipated was falling back to sleep himself. Thankfully, when he woke up again, blueish light was barely showing behind the curtains. He had time to shower before waking Sam - there was no point moving him back to his bedroom, now.

Breakfast was tense, but at least Sam looked rested. Clara tried to diffuse the heavy atmosphere by mentioning tidbits she'd read about Tintagel castle, the previous night. It seemed that she'd had trouble sleeping as well, then. The Doctor could tell she hesitated, but she eventually let him drive Sam to school on his own. He was careful to put on a brave face when he said good-bye to him next to the coach that would take him and his classmates to Cornwall. Especially when he saw that other children - and parents - were more than a little teary themselves. It made him feel slightly better about himself, but he still wanted his child to leave on a happy note.

"You got everything, then?" he asked him unnecessarily once he'd put his bag in the boot. They'd spent hours the previous evening making sure they hadn't forgotten anything from the teachers' list.

"I think so," Sam answered, his lips set.

"You know you can call me if there's anything wrong or if you have a nightmare, right?" he whispered, hoping other parents weren't listening.

"I know."

They stood, facing each other, unsure what to do. When the teachers started calling the register and lining the children in alphabetical order, the Doctor knew there was no going back, now. He barely had time to react before he felt Sam's small arms hugging his waist tightly.

"Bye, dad," he mumbled against his chest.

"Bye, Sam," he replied, holding him just as closely for a few seconds.

"Have fun, yeah?" he told him, when he heard his name being called. Sam nodded, smiling, and waved to him a few minutes later from the bus. When it was gone, he chose not to linger among the other parents, and drove home in a rush. Fortunately, Clara was waiting for him with a hug of her own and a cup of tea.

The Doctor didn't have to go to the hospital until early evening, so he took the time to do some tidying up in Sam's bedroom. He elected not to focus on the reasons why he felt like spending time in his son's room at a time like this. The boy wasn't messy, but he was glad to see that the bedroom had started looking more like a little boy's room, rather than an IKEA poster. He'd blu-tacked several of his drawings on the walls and his desk had almost disappeared under a few layers of books, papers, pencils and old x-rays he'd given him for sketching practise.

He changed the bed-sheets, noticing that Sam had chosen not to bring his plush rabbit with him to Cornwall. Probably a wise decision considering how cruel some children could be, although he didn't know why the boy felt the need to hide it inside his pillowcase. He didn't think nine year old was too old for a plush toy, but then he'd never had one as a child. Maybe he'd try to broach the subject with him once he came back. When he moved the mattress, he felt something bumping against his fingers. He took the object out slowly, and saw that it was a book. Upon closer inspection, he realised that it was in fact a photo album. The Doctor flipped a few pages and eventually felt the need to sit down.

Clara found him some time later in the same position, sitting on Sam half-made bed, the photo album on his knees.

"Doctor, you okay? I've been calling you and you weren't answering," she said, walking closer.

"Is that...?"

"I found it under his mattress," he told her, somewhat guiltily.

She sat down next to him and he turned the pages more slowly for her. He had already been looking at it for a while, and studied each and every picture several times.

"His mother was very beautiful," she said in a quiet voice.

"She was," he acknowledged, realising that Clara hadn't known what River looked like.

"They have the same smile and the same almond-shaped eyes. The rest is all you," she noticed, looking at him.

But the Doctor couldn't focus on anything else but the pictures. Pictures of River, pictures of places all over the world but mostly pictures of Sam. They were apparently ordered by year, and he could see his son growing up under his eyes. It was a very odd feeling, seeing him as a baby, then a toddler, and finally as a little boy he easily recognised. He lingered on the early pictures more than the others. Samuel as an infant, his eyes barely open and his hair already curly. The Doctor had a hard time finding the right words to express what he felt. So he didn't, and kept staring at the images. What he did know was that he felt an even more desperate longing. He wished he had been there at the time. He wished he'd been able to hold his baby boy in his arms. And spend time counting his fingers and toes. Now that he knew exactly what he had missed, the loss seemed that much greater to him, and the void inside his chest felt fathomless.

"I'm sure you would have been a great father even then," Clara told him, gripping his upper-arm loosely.

He managed to unglue his eyes from the album and observed her. Once again, she seemed able to decipher his very thought.

"You can't know that," he answered, stubbornly.

"I know what I see when I look at you now," she replied, unruffled.

"I do wish I'd been there," he admitted in a small voice, his gaze stopping once more on a picture of a five or six-year old Sam. It reminded him of the picture he had of himself at the same age. Dimples, wind-swept hair and carefree smile.

"You could always have more children some day, you're not that old," she reasoned.

"Right, maybe I should track down all my former girlfriends, just to see if I don't have another Sam somewhere," he deadpanned, "granted, it wouldn't take me very long to go over the list..."

"I didn't mean that," Clara interrupted him, knowing that his rant was caused by grief and hurt.

The Doctor exhaled loudly and didn't speak for a while. When he eventually closed the album, he put it back where he found it and Clara helped him finish making the bed.

"Perhaps you should show him your own pictures," she suggested when they were done and walking back downstairs.

"My own pictures?" he asked her, puzzled.

"The pictures from when you were a kid. He's bound to see how much he looks like you. It might give him the opportunity to show you the photo album."

"Maybe," he conceded.

He did hope he would find a way for Sam to show him the album willingly. He felt bad for having snooped in his bedroom.

"Come on, I want to show you something," Clara said, entering the living room. She sat down on the couch, and woke her laptop.

"What is it?" asked the Doctor, sitting next to her.

"My thesis," she told him, biting her lips, "I think I just finished it."

"You did?"

"Yes, and... Would you...? Do you think you could read it, and tell me what you think?"

He looked at her and realised how nervous she was. This meant a lot to her, asking him to judge something she had spent three years writing. And he felt the weight of such responsibility. But he also felt wonderfully touched and lucky that she would ask him for his opinion. She might have partly chosen him to read it in order to make him stop think about Sam. And yet her shining eyes and red cheeks proved how vulnerable she felt, and how much trust she was bestowing upon him. He couldn't help but love her all the more for that.

"Of course I will, Clara."


	6. Chapter 6

Someone was crying. Somewhere. He tried to move towards the sound, but his feet were apparently glued to the floor. Looking down, he was relieved to see that at least, he was no longer wearing plastic sandals. And he appeared to be his own age, for once. But the screams wouldn't stop, and were getting more insistent and desperate each passing minute. Their tonality was fluctuating: at times, he thought they came from a small child or even a baby, at others, from an adult. Perhaps even from him. His throat was raw and his nerve endings on fire. The sound wouldn't stop, and as panic seemed ready to engulf him, he woke up.

The window was on the wrong side of the room and he was pretty sure his desk wasn't supposed to be there. It took him a while to get his bearings and realise that he had fallen asleep in his office, at the hospital. The Doctor wondered why he felt so disorientated. After all, waking up at work had happened often enough. He had the niggling sensation that he wasn't supposed to be there. Wasn't he meant to be somewhere else? He finally managed to find his phone in the dark, which told him that it was just past seven o'clock on Saturday morning. Had he been called on an emergency during the day? His shift had only been scheduled for early evening. Rolling over on the old couch to sit up, his hands fell on a big pile of loose sheets of paper. _Clara's thesis_. Friday then promptly started playing back in his mind. Saying goodbye to Sam. Finding the photo album under his mattress. Clara's concerned look. He knew what he'd done, now. He'd bloody run away, like a coward. As usual.

He remembered telling her that he had to go and look at some files at the hospital. Even though he hadn't been lying - not exactly - he knew she didn't believe him. Yet she'd said nothing. Surprisingly, he wished that she had. And that she'd gotten angry with him, even. But what would that have achieved in the end? Probably nothing. He still would have left. The look in her eyes after he'd discovered the pictures had greatly unsettled him. The compassion he had read in them had felt suffocating. Part of him was conscious that he was supposed to embrace it and feel thankful for her kindness, but he'd been incapable of handling his emotions. So he'd made up an excuse and left. To regroup in another familiar environment. To lick his wounds and deal with the grief the photo album had caused him on his own. He wished he had the tools that would allow him to accept someone else's help. But those tools had never been made available to him, and he was pretty sure it was too late to acquire them now.

Despite all that, the Doctor had felt guilty. This was new. Running away had rarely made him feel guilty before. After he'd settled down, he'd printed the document he had asked Clara to send on his email. He'd promised to read her thesis, after all. And he wanted to hold what she had written in his hands. All 400 pages of it. The weight of the paper had felt good, and reassuring. But their physical presence couldn't erase the fact that he had deliberately escaped the author of those words. The pile, once completed, had sat accusingly on his desk. It had taken him a while to find the courage inside himself to start reading the text without picturing Clara's disappointed face. _Why did you leave?_ But she had never looked at him like that. She had never reproached him anything. Which only added to his guilt.

She deserved better from him. Hell, she deserved better - period. The Doctor sighed and scratched his scalp angrily. Coffee. He needed coffee. Maudlin thoughts were always a bad sign. A sign that he was tired. He stood up slowly, opened the blinds, and switched on a lamp. Dawn was still about an hour away, but he could see some light on the horizon, half hidden behind the buildings across from him. He drank some cold tea and winced at the taste, intent on reading more of Clara's thesis before going for his rounds.

He'd only managed to read about ten pages the previous night, but he'd started jotting down a few notes in the margins. He hoped she wouldn't mind. Unfortunately, he had trouble concentrating and focusing on the words once again. Now that he had slept on it, he kept wondering why he had felt the need to leave the house - and Clara - the day before. He was clearly not uncomfortable around her and relished the time they spent together - be it aboard the Tardis or not. Perhaps something had felt wrong with Sam away. Perhaps being alone with her in the empty house had been too different. Too personal. _Too close._

The Doctor's eyes fell on his son's x-ray drawing pinned over his desk. He wondered how he was and felt the urge to call him. Just to ask him if he'd slept okay. It was stupid, he knew. Sam needed to learn how to deal with new situations on his own. He didn't want to become one of those overbearing parents children were secretly ashamed of. The boy was fine. Probably just waking up, actually. With a big day ahead of him. Still, stopping himself from pressing Sam's number on his phone proved a lot harder than he had anticipated.

Martha was late. As in, really late. This wasn't like her. But then, she didn't get engaged on a regular basis. She smiled fondly at the memory and clutched her left hand to feel the new ring pressing against her palm. It had probably been stupid of her to come to the hospital wearing it, since she would have to take it off at one point, but she had been unable to part with it that morning. Also, she secretly wanted people to see it. She wasn't a vain person, not by a long shot, but her happiness was such that she wanted to share it with as many people as possible. Clara was one of the first people she had called, and they had agreed to meet for lunch at the cafeteria. She had sounded a bit subdued on the phone - something had probably happened with the Doctor. _Again_. But Martha had decided that nothing could put a damper on her day. And the prospect of having to listen to her friend's relationship issues was actually a pleasant one, for once. Everyone deserved to be just as in love as she was, and if it meant pointing her friend in the right direction, she would do it. She would help her get there.

She knew that Clara's relationship with the Doctor was a complicated one - how could it not be? - but she also knew that their getting together had been beneficial, for the both of them. Martha didn't believe in trite romantic ideals such as that of soul mates, although she had to admit that for all their differences, the Doctor and Clara were a good match. They both meant a lot to her, for different reasons. And she would hate to see them destroy what they had. But relationships were a fragile thing. Six months ago, she wouldn't have expected what she had with Mickey to go anywhere. And yet, here she was, the happiest woman in the world. Even if her excitement would gradually fade - and she was realistic enough to know that it would, sooner rather than later, especially in a place like this - she wanted this moment to stay with her always.

When Donna told her that the Doctor had already done the rounds in the surgical ward, she went straight to see their other patients in ITU, but didn't bump into him. Was he avoiding Clara? Hiding? He should have left hours ago. She'd find a way to tactfully ask her friend later. Surely, she had started to get used to his quirks by now.

Martha met Clara downstairs and apologised, out of breath, for being late. For the second time that day, she conceded that daydreaming was obviously _not_ mixing well with punctuality.

"So when's the big day?" asked Clara, halfway through her sandwich and looking genuinely pleased for her.

"We haven't decided yet. This Summer might be a bit too soon if we want everyone to come, but Autumn would be nice, I think."

"If you make me wear something purple or peach, I will kill you," Clara told her in a very serious tone.

"Don't worry," Martha replied, grinning slightly, "we won't do the whole church thing. Just a big reception with friends and family. But I still want you next to me at the table, mind you, bridesmaid or not."

"I'll be there with bells on, you can count on me. And I'll start writing my embarrassing anecdotes tonight."

It felt good to talk about the future wedding so lightly, especially since Martha knew that a few weeks from now, she'd have to start seriously planning it and undoubtedly over-stressing about everything. They didn't broach the subject of the Doctor before coffee, but Martha had spied worry lines gradually appearing on her friend's face.

"Have you seen the Doctor this morning?" Clara eventually asked, staring at her cup.

"I thought he'd gone home. I know he did the rounds, but I haven't see him."

"He wasn't back before I left. I thought there'd been an emergency, but clearly if you're here with me there hasn't."

"He might still be in his office or consulting in another ward. He often does that," she tried to reassure her.

"I'm probably worrying over nothing, but he's been a little strange since Sam left for his school trip. I think he just needs some time on his own."

"Nothing new there," Martha commented, and her friend nodded.

"Apart from that, how has it been going between you two? Last time we spoke, after the disastrous surgery, you said things were going great." Clara pondered her answer, but eventually smiled warmly.

"It's still great, I'm just nitpicking, really. He actually helped me come to an important decision regarding my career."

"What decision?" Martha asked, interested.

"I'm not one hundred percent sure, yet," Clara hedged, "but I'll tell you once the University accepts. _If_ they accept. I don't want to jinx it, just in case."

Martha wasn't sure if she should be glad that Clara and the Doctor shared such personal matters, or annoyed that she was being excluded. But in all fairness, she hadn't shown excessive interest in her friend's job, and felt a little guilty about that. So she was glad someone else was.

"Oh, and by the way, I think I finished my thesis. I have a couple of months to put the finishing touches, but I'm still set to hand it back in June," she added, beaming with pride.

"That's great! You must be glad to see the end of it, though."

"You don't say! I hope the Doctor will go easy on me with his comments. But somehow, I doubt it." Clara sipped her coffee pensively, frowning slightly.

"You asked him to read your thesis? Before your supervisor?" inquired Martha, frowning as well now.

"Of course. The man's a genius, I could do with a remark or two from him. But it'll probably be more like a hundred. I asked for it, I guess. And he seemed happy to do it," she replied, shrugging. Her friend's reaction was puzzling her.

"Please don't think that I'm prying or anything, but..." Martha hesitated, then leaned forward to whisper the rest of her sentence, "you _do _do other things with him, right? Your relation isn't just purely academical, or..."

"Are you kidding?" Clara interrupted, her tone rising and her eyes wide, "Best sex I've ever had!" A pause. "And don't look at me like that, you _did _ask."

"I did, didn't I?" Martha answered rhetorically, her cheeks heating up. Nonetheless, a half smile was playing on her lips.

"Sorry, I guess I couldn't help wondering. I know it's not really healthy since he's my boss and all that, but..."

"I understand," Clara said, her voice back to its normal level, "that doesn't mean we can't behave like adults though, right?"

"Sure."

They both burst out laughing, loudly, which earned them a few looks. Martha hoped the Doctor wouldn't choose that particular moment to come in - she wouldn't have been able to look at him with a straight face. But she was interrupted by the buzzing of her pager.

"Emergency in A&amp;E. Why don't you come with me? If the Doctor's still in the hospital, he's bound to be there. I'll help you drag him out of the premises if necessary."

"Cheers, let's go."

Clara followed Martha to the admission desk in Accidents &amp; Emergency, and a nurse pointed them in the direction of the waiting room. Intrigued, the young surgeon walked towards the entryway. Clara wondered if she should stay, but the sight that greeted her stopped her in her tracks. The Doctor was heading straight for them, his pace determined and his eyes set. In his arms, he held a little girl of no more than two. Behind him, she could spy a distraught young couple - the parents, in all likelihood. She couldn't help but remember Samuel's photo album and the envious look she had read on the Doctor's face. His regret at not having known what it felt like to hold his baby son had been plain to see. Observing him now with the little girl pressed against his chest was almost painful. But she quickly realised that there was nothing peaceful about this picture.

"Twenty-month old, lethargic, parents had trouble waking her up this morning. She might have fallen and hit her head yesterday, I'm heading for the scan right now," he uttered mechanically.

"Did she lose consciousness?" asked Martha, copying his long strides as best as she could.

"Twice. I'd say her PGCS is at 9 or 10, but I'd rather take her to the scan now than do a full neuro exam."

Not knowing what was expected of her, Clara started following them. The Doctor was focussed and imperturbable in his task, but she could clearly see that Martha had a harder time concealing her emotions. She had visibly blanched at the Doctor's enumeration - the little girl's prognosis wasn't good.

"But she can't have hit her head, surely!" said the girl's father, his eyes wild.

"We're _always_ watching her!" added the mother in a trembling tone, wringing her hands.

"We need to get a CT scan, no time for an MRI," answered the Doctor calmly.

"What do you mean, no time?" asked the father, clearly panicking now.

"No trolley?" pressed Martha.

"No time for that either."

Clara knew that she had to leave. When they reached the elevator, Martha gave her a sad, resigned look. With a lump in her throat, she smiled slightly in goodbye. Her last image before the door closed was of the Doctor determined but chilling eyes, the toddler's head resting gently against his shoulder.

Sitting on the bus that took her home, Clara couldn't erase that vision from her mind. The terrified parents, Martha's obvious knowledge of the negative outcome and the Doctor's utter concentration on his young patient. Pictures kept superimposing themselves in her mind, real and imagined ones: Samuel as a baby, the Doctor holding him, the Doctor holding the little girl, the Doctor holding another little girl. One with curly hair and brown eyes like hers.

Clara was pretty sure that she wanted to be a mother at some point in her life. And she believed it had only been human of her in the past to imagine what it would have been like to have a child with her few ex-boyfriends. Most times, the result was a laughable fiasco - she was the first to admit that her track record in the dating field wasn't great. But still, she enjoyed playing games of 'what if?' in her mind. It was safe and perfectly innocent, after all. Things were different with the Doctor. For one, he already had a child, which made it worryingly easier to picture him as a father or imagine what a kid of their own might look like. Also, as it had been made obvious to her from the beginning, nothing was either safe or innocent when it came to him.

Clara knew all this was only the product of her hyperactive mind. She wasn't about to venture on such a dangerous path with a man she'd been with for a little over a month. A man twenty years her senior with a nine year old son. A man with a complicated past. A man whose name she didn't even know. But despite all that, she kept seeing the Doctor holding a little girl in her mind. Their little girl.

She almost missed her stop and was incapable of doing anything once home. The empty house unnerved her. It just wasn't the same without Sam, even as quiet as he usually was. Clara tried not to think about the little girl, and what her exam results would do to the Doctor and Martha, let alone her parents.

Many hours later, the Doctor was sitting in his car, now parked in front of the house. The blue dashboard clock read just before midnight. Far too late, and yet he took the phone from his pocket and dialled Sam's number to leave a message. The boy would be sleeping - he hoped so anyway. Still, it was no use trying to resist, lest he wanted to stay the night in his car debating whether he should call him or not. He was actually that close to driving to Cornwall to see him. There was just no way he could forget what he'd seen and heard today. The screams and the tears and the horror. He _had_ to call.

"Hey, Sam. I know it's late and you're in bed, but I just wanted to know how you were. Call me if you have the time tomorrow. See you on Monday. Bye, son."

Short. To the point. _Pathetic_. The Doctor sighed deeply and rested his head against the steering wheel. When the blue digits across from him showed midnight, he exited the car and entered the quiet house. He stopped at the kitchen but realised he wasn't hungry, even though he hadn't eaten anything for hours. Upstairs, he lingered in front of his son's door, and couldn't stop himself from eventually walking in the room.

There was barely any light despite the blinds not being drawn, but he could still see that the bed was empty. _Of course it was_. He sat on the mattress, and once his eyes had gotten used to the darkness, he let them roam and take in the various drawings and books. He missed the boy terribly. If he hadn't been on his school trip, he probably would have taken him up on his insistence that it was fine to wake him if he needed to. Except that the scene at the hospital hadn't been a bad dream. The Doctor untied his shoes, and hugged his knees to his chest, wanting nothing more than to hold his son against him instead. He closed his eyes, but quickly opened them again. He mustn't fall asleep. Only nightmares lay ahead.

The little girl's Paediatric Glasgow Coma Scale had plummeted during the scan and they'd had to put her on a ventilator. Her pupils had become fixed and dilated. The Doctor hadn't needed to see the results to know that the brain damage was too massive to operate. That it was too late. But even when you tried to explain medical terms to parents - epidural haematoma, significant midline shift, vegetative state, absence of gagging or coughing reflex - those were only words to them, meaningless words. They still thought you could operate and perform a miracle. They still thought everything could be fixed.

When they had asked to speak to someone who had children, someone who would understand, the Doctor had come to a startling realisation. All those years, he had felt all the better for not belonging to that group. He had always thought that it helped him be a better doctor and a better surgeon not to have kids. It made him more focused and likely to make the right decisions when necessary. Not only had he now discovered that he _did_ belong in that group, that he _did_ have a child and was a parent himself, but also that he wouldn't want to go back to the way things were. Not for anything. Not in a million years.

The screams had started then. And the hysterical tears. And the accusations. Parents turning on each other instead of shouldering the burden of getting through that first, horrible night together. He'd seen it before, of course. But their hopelessness and desperation had had a massive impact on him. Seeing them again in his mind the Doctor's breath suddenly caught in his throat and he stood up quickly. He needed to get this vision out. He needed to forget, just for a little while. To extinguish the rage boiling just under the surface. Useless rage at the unfairness of it all. He needed...

He found himself in front of Clara's door. The Doctor couldn't remember walking the distance from Sam's room, but now that he was there he knew that he wanted to see her and be with her. He pushed in the door slowly, electing not to knock. She sat up in bed, obviously not sleeping.

"Doctor?" Clara whispered.

He couldn't speak, but his legs took him to the bed and he sat down heavily. Clara found his hand in the dark and squeezed it, all the while moving closer.

"The little girl?" she asked sadly, apparently already knowing the answer.

Instead of verbally confirming her suspicions, he rested his free hand on her cheek and started kissing her, urgently. She responded in kind, rising up to her knees. He gripped her waist and made her leave the shelter of the covers to hug her body against his. Clara obliged and straddled his lap, her fingers immediately reaching for his hair. As his kisses grew more bruising, her short nails dug deeper in his scalp. They stopped for a few seconds, panting, before the Doctor lunged for her throat. She moaned in appreciation and he laid her back down on the mattress. She seemed to understand what he needed from her, and let him take control.

He quickly divested her of her T-shirt and panties, and it was only as an afterthought that he remembered to take off his own clothes. The Doctor pressed his lips to her collarbone and made his way down her chest. He knew he was leaving small bruises behind, but he didn't care, and Clara didn't either. Her pleasure built rapidly and when he finally entered her, she ground herself against him longingly. She clutched his chest to hers, her legs high around his waist, and each scratch along his back brought a low groan from him. Each time she arched her neck to grant him better access, the memory of the day's tragedy slipped further and further away from him. The mother's soul wrenching sobs were replaced by Clara's sharp exhale. The father's empty eyes became the keening cry she emitted just before completion. And the little girl looking oh so brand new and perfect even in death was transformed into his own half-strangled scream of relief.

_Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, Clara. Thank you for being here_. He hoped he hadn't said that out loud - it would have sounded horribly condescending. But he couldn't be sure. He also hoped she hadn't realised that the reason he had screwed his eyes tight shut was to hide the tears in them.

For once, he didn't begrudge her wish to hold him close afterwards, and they settled on their sides. With her arms draped around him and his head against her chest, the last of the nightmarish images left him. He slid a hand on her lower back, breathed in the intoxicating smell of her skin and fell asleep to the gradually slowing beat of her heart.

When he woke up, he felt blissfully and utterly content for a few short seconds. Clara had moved, and he was now hugging her back to him. Her perfume lingered in her hair and he smiled. But the feeling left him just as fast as it had come and a heavy weight settled on his chest. He had been weak. Weaker than weak. The Doctor pulled back from her warm body as if burned. Fortunately, she didn't wake up. _What had he done?_ Had he really stooped so low as to not realising that he was taking advantage of her? His hands shaking in horror, he managed to pick up his clothes from the floor and exit the bedroom. _Guilty._ That's what he was.

He didn't think he would be able to go back to sleep in his own bed, so he put some of his clothes back on and went downstairs. Blood was rushing to his ears, and he sat at the kitchen table before his legs gave out. His breath coming in short gasps, he slid his fingers through his hair then stopped, remembering too well Clara's own hands doing the same. How could he have let that happen? He had ruined the most wonderful relationship he probably ever had with a woman. And for what? A few hours of serenity? The microwave clock accusingly proved him right - it wasn't even five in the morning.

A little girl had died - what business did he have finding solace in his lover's arms? He was disgusted with himself. And Clara would hate him as well once she realised what he'd subjected her to. The two parents now faced a lifetime of misery - the least he could have done was commiserate. On the verge of panicking, he realised that he needed to focus on something else. _Work. _He needed to work. He must have brought files to review. But when he spied his worn leather messenger bag on the floor next to the door, he remembered what was in it. Clara's thesis. There was no way he could read it now, not with their looming break-up shadowing all his other thoughts. She'd probably want to move. _Christ_, what would Sam think? How would he possibly replace his au pair? He should have never slept with her. Hell, he should have never kissed her to start with. He had been so stupid! And because of his selfishness, his son would pay the price. He got on so well with Clara and now he'd have to tell him that someone else was abandoning him. What a complete and giant waste. He couldn't do anything but fuck things up, apparently. Why had he thought that it could be different with her? Because she was different, an impertinent voice whispered in his ear. But now he had destroyed all the trust she might have placed in him.

Was it what had happened with River Song as well? She had left after two months, pregnant with his child. Had she also realised that he was irrevocably damaged goods? And far too messed up to be a father? She hadn't known much about his past - less than Clara, as it were - but perhaps she had still been able to see that the best thing for her would be to get as far away from him as possible. The Doctor chose not to remember that she had still brought Sam to him when she was dying, instead of someone else. He was too far gone in his self-hatred for that. There had never been any doubt in his mind that River had _known_ she was pregnant when she left him. That it was what had made her leave, in fact. It never occurred to him that she might have made the discovery later on.

When Clara woke up and didn't feel the Doctor's body next to hers, she immediately went in search of him, as though she knew already that something was wrong. She found him in the kitchen, looking despondent, staring at an untouched cup of tea. How long had he been there? It wasn't even seven, yet.

"Why did you leave?" she asked in a voice that was smaller than she had wished.

He quickly raised his eyes too her, as though startled by her presence and her words. He had put his jumper back on the wrong way and wasn't wearing socks - he had dressed in a hurry.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, no longer looking at her.

"For what?" she asked, puzzled, and a bit pissed off as well now.

He shrugged as though the answer was obvious. But it wasn't to her. She approached him carefully and he flinched when she slid a hand around his neck to try and make him talk to her. She put her hand back, stunned. What had happened? What had she done?

"I'm really sorry," he repeated uselessly, "for what I've done."

"What, having sex with me?" she pressed, her temper rising. "For all the times you slept with me or simply this particular time, just to be clear?"

He looked at her a little helplessly and had the nerve to shrug again. How dare he!

"I took advantage of you tonight, and I shouldn't have," he finally added, understanding that a mere shoulder movement wouldn't cut it with her. Not by a long shot.

"Taking advantage of me? Are you serious?" Clara was fuming. Sure, he'd been a little rougher than usual but she hadn't minded. On the contrary, she thought he'd been sharing his grief with her over his patient. She had felt them connecting on a much deeper level. And all this time he believed he had been using her?

"Is this how you see me, then? Helpless to resist your advances and repentant in your shame?"

"No! Of course not," the Doctor answered, and she was glad to finally get a rise out of him.

"So why are you sorry? Did I complain at any point?"

"No, but..."

"Did I reject you or try to stop you?" she quickly interrupted, "Did I push you away or willingly hurt you?"

"Clara..." he attempted to placate her, seeing how angry she had become. But she wasn't finished.

"When I moaned your name in your ear, did you think it was me begging you to stop?"

"Please, listen to me..." He looked almost in pain, now. _Good._

"And when I came - tell me Doctor - do you think I was faking it? And were the feelings I had for you when you moved deep inside me figments of my imagination?"

"Stop! Please, Clara, please..." he yelled in a strangled voice, rising from his chair. She was shaking all over and there were tears rolling down her cheeks but she needed to say all this, and he needed to hear it.

"Don't you dare tell me what I'm supposed to feel, Doctor," she told him in a more levelled tone, "don't you dare imply that I somehow let you rape me. It's not my fault you can't recognise something when it's staring you right in the face."

Clara quickly regretted her last sentence when she saw his stunned reaction. He wasn't ready to hear that. He might never be ready to hear that, unfortunately. She thought she'd be able to show him the love she felt, but perhaps she'd been wrong. The Doctor visibly struggled with what he wanted to say, and Clara realised how vulnerable and cold she was, now that her anger had abated. She wished she'd taken the time to put on more than the shirt she slept in before coming down.

The Doctor sat back down, sighing, choosing not to utter anything for a little while.

"I'm such a fuck up," he eventually mumbled, his heavy head resting on his hands.

"Don't say that, pity doesn't become you," she told him, feeling defeated as well. She'd played her cards badly, and pushed him too far, forcing him to resort to his default mode.

"Everything I touch turns to dust in the end." Clara huffed, thinking it best to let him rant at the moment. But his next words chilled her to the bone.

"I warned you it would be like that."

His eyes were pure, unforgiving silver. She swallowed, alarm bells ringing in her head. _What was he doing?_ Did he think that a simple argument meant that everything had to be over between them? Had he learned nothing from her?

"Don't do this, Doctor. You're not thinking straight," she warned him, struggling to get the words past the lump in her throat.

"Oh, so now _you're_ the one telling me what I'm supposed to feel?" She couldn't believe how cold he sounded.

"Please..." How quickly the tables had turned. She was the one begging him to stop, now.

"You have to see that it's for the best, surely."

"What?" she pressed, not backing down, "You're going to have to actually say it, Doctor," she told him, feeling more at ease now that her anger was back.

"It's easy to find younger and less damaged," he hedged, his matter of factness slightly horrifying her.

"So you think this is an age thing, then?" she couldn't help but point out, feeling vindictive.

"Fine, just less fucked up. Or perhaps you like fixing people," the Doctor uttered in a laid back tone, almost proud of his discovery.

This was the last straw. Clara didn't think she had ever been as furious as she was now. Who the hell did he think he was? And just as she was about to violently lash out and scream at him with all her might, she realised what he'd done. He'd said all that on purpose, knowing it would enrage her to the highest degree. She had to admit that he was dreadfully good at this game. He had pushed all the right buttons - perhaps he actually knew her a lot better than she had thought. She took a deep, calming breath, and decided to sit down next to him, carefully leaving an empty seat between them - to help her resist slapping him.

"Stop pushing me away, Doctor," she told him quietly.

Her reaction clearly wasn't the one he had expected, and he was unable to come up with a retort.

"I know what you're trying to do and it won't work," she added levelly. He smiled a little sadly, and started fidgeting on his chair. He was clearly trying to come up with a way to escape the situation and physically leave. Clara felt a little guilty for making him go through this, but she had to try and salvage what they had, somehow.

"The fact that you came to me last night... You don't have to feel guilty or ashamed about that, Doctor," she started telling him, hoping he was listening. But it was hard to tell when he wouldn't look at her.

"I knew that the little girl's prognosis wasn't good when I was at the hospital. And I can imagine how hard it must have been for you to deal with the outcome with Sam being away," he finally raised his head at that, but kept his eyes glued in front of him.

"I'm glad that you trusted me enough to reach out. And I'm glad I was there for you. You didn't _use_ me. Or if you did, then I whole-heartedly and willingly let you. I don't regret any of it. How could I?"

His emotions were shyly guarded, but he turned towards her nonetheless. She'd rarely known him to stay silent for so long. At least, he was letting her speak. Knowing if he believed her words was another matter.

"What do you usually do when tragedy strikes? What do other surgeons, doctors and nurses do? How do you cope? There must be something."

The Doctor remained quiet, but seemed to be working on an answer.

"I know Martha relies on Mickey in times like these. And her family. She talked to me about some of her difficult cases when she started as a house surgeon and I was staying at her uncle's. That's how we became friends, actually," Clara added, hoping he would open up.

"Work," he mumbled, "I usually just continue working, or do some other work. There's always work to do. That usually does it for me."

Clara didn't know if he would have shared anything more after that, because his phone started ringing. His eyes lit up when he saw who it was, and she didn't have the heart to regret the fact that they had been interrupted for very long.

"Sam? How...how are you? My message last night didn't wake you, did it?"

The conversation was over in minutes - she saw on the microwave that it was just past seven o'clock - but the Doctor was a different person when he hung up. He sat back down, then stood up again promptly, incapable of staying at the same place for long. Wide awake and wired.

"I called him last night," he admitted, sheepish, "when I was still in the car. I didn't know if he'd be able to reach me. But he just told me that almost all the other parents had disregarded the rules and given their kids a mobile phone." He smiled, glad to have apparently done something right, for once.

"He says he's fine and the trip is going great. He loved the ruins of Tintagel Castle."

Clara smiled in turn, unsurprised. The call had re-energised the Doctor, and he looked ready to face another day at the hospital. Still, she hoped she had helped him get there as well. It was difficult to know what the state of their relationship was, at the moment. Had they moved forwards or backwards? Only time would tell, she guessed.

All throughout the day at the hospital, Clara's question kept popping up in the Doctor's mind: "How do you cope?". Sam's call had come just at the right time. He'd been so vulnerable she would have probably managed to get a lot of things out of him. Which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, he knew. But he'd been in a weird mood. And he still wasn't quite sure where they stood with each other now.

How _did_ he cope? Well, a lot better than the previous night, obviously. He remembered the reaction of his consultant many years ago, when he had started his surgical training and faced one of his first failures: he had punched a wall so hard he had broken three of his fingers. The man had taken him aside, put the plaster on himself, and given him a very powerful speech. In all of his years, he had seen doctors deal with tragedy in many different ways. Some turned to drinking or other recreational - and not so recreational - drugs. Few managed to control it. Some swallowed it all up with the risk of imploding from pent up anger and grief - and they usually did, with drastic consequences. Some dealt with it by talking - to loved ones, family members or even therapists. And some resorted to violence. But even though the Doctor had harmed only himself - and the wall - in his outburst, what was the result? The worst possible: he wouldn't be able to operate for weeks. Although he was only a trainee, how many patients' treatments and surgeries had potentially been delayed because of him? What of the consequences? Would some of them deteriorate or die because of his stupid decision?

He had learned two things that day: the hands were the most important tool of a surgeon. The brain would only get you so far - it had led him to a brick wall, after all. The second lesson came to him more gradually. Because he was unable to operate, his consultant had made him read and compile articles and review hundreds of patient files. To any other young surgeon, this would have been akin to torture. But to the Doctor, it was a revelation - he had learned more about his job in those few weeks than he had in all his previous years of studying. Work allowed him to escape. Work allowed him to cope. And from this day on, that's how he did it. Sure, some days, after a particularly horrible surgery, he still longed for a brick wall to punch. Any wall, really. He was very much aware that violence had shaped most of his youth. The Doctor wanted to believe that his violent streak had only been the result of his inconsistent upbringing. Living in homes often meant earning the respect of your peers through fists, especially when you were just a bit too smart for your own good. But burying himself in tedious medical research had now become his safe haven. And violence a _mostly_ forgotten memory.

This still didn't explain what had happened the previous night. He'd deliberately left out an item from his old consultant's speech, for obvious reasons at the time. According to him, some doctors coped by turning their anger into love. By transforming their grief over the death of a patient into the celebration of someone else's life - be it their wife, husband, girlfriend, boyfriend, partner, friend, parent or kid. The Doctor had been sure at the time that this wouldn't work for him. Love didn't hold much meaning to him. Love was a weakness he could very well live without. He remembered thinking that his colleagues who had families to come home to were the unluckiest. Because it must have taken such an effort every day to force themselves to pretend that they were fine. To mask their true feelings to their spouses and children. Surely they wouldn't let them see the horror of the job. The failures and the regret and the pain. They wouldn't subject them to that. That's why he had never been jealous of those people - it was a lot easier to come home to an empty house. No point pretending when no one was there.

He had recently come to rethink his opinion on the matter with Samuel's arrival. Granted, he didn't exactly share his work problems with him - at least, he didn't think he was - but he'd be lying if he said that leaving the hospital after a bad day was more difficult now that his son was waiting for him at home. On the contrary, sharing breakfast with him every morning grounded him. Even though they barely exchanged a word, knowing that he was there was enough. In the same way that checking up on him during the night allowed him to fall asleep more easily.

And if Clara was to be believed... Well, this also changed a lot of things. Had she really been fine with him coming to her bedroom in the middle of the night? Wasn't it a breach of their trust? He knew that part of the problem resided in the fact that it had taken place in the house rather than on the Tardis. Which was stupid, really. Why had he felt the need to insist on those rules in the first place? More like guidelines, in fact, since they had never actually said them out loud. Was there another reason why it was bothering him so much? Hadn't he longed for her presence in his own bed many a sleepless night? Losing himself in her had felt more cathartic than he could possibly express. He had never been able to so completely erase horrific images from his mind. Or so quickly. No amount of work could have possibly done that. And _God_ it had felt good. So good he should probably feel guilty - which he did.

He had managed to read some more pages of Clara's thesis during the afternoon, once Martha had arrived for her shift. There was only one thing he didn't regret about the previous day: sparing his young registrar. He had known deep down that the little girl probably wouldn't make it. So he had taken the decision to send Martha do their elective surgery on her own and leave him to deal with the parents. She had complained at first, of course, but he'd been adamant. One look at her and the ring on her finger had told him everything he needed to know. He couldn't make her go through all this sorrow on a day like this if he could help it. And he could, so he had. The young woman had been unable to disguise her happiness over her engagement, and it was even plainer to see today. The Doctor had never known her to look so radiant and bubbly, and he wanted her to stay that way for as long as possible - she certainly deserved it. Unfortunately, this also meant that an uncomfortable weight had lodged itself deep inside his chest. He could never give that to Clara. He could never make her quite so happy, no matter how hard he tried. Perhaps this realisation, more than any other, prevented him from reaching out to her in the next few days. It was best to let sleeping dogs lie, after all.

The Doctor knew she had an important meeting with her thesis supervisor on Monday afternoon, which made waiting until four o'clock even harder. In the empty house, there was nothing to distract him. He was more than halfway through Clara's text, and had spent some time that morning looking up references for her, but the knowledge that Sam would be back shortly prevented him from focussing on anything else. He had to stop himself a few times from walking to the school in case the coach arrived earlier than anticipated. He missed his son, but had already pledged he wouldn't be one of those anxious parents. Still, when he eventually left the house, he had several minutes to spare.

Despite his resolution, he couldn't help hugging the child tightly to him when he got off the bus. He hoped the other parents hadn't seen that Samuel's feet had even left the ground for a few seconds. But they all seemed too busy welcoming their own children. His son was smiling widely and recounting all the different things he had seen on the way home, and the Doctor proudly listened on without interrupting. Once they were sat at the kitchen table with a welcoming snack, he took the time to observe him more closely. He wanted to make sure he hadn't missed anything, that Sam hadn't grown up while he was away.

"Dad?" the boy inquired some time later, sounding a little drowsy after all his thrilling tales.

"Yes?"

"Are we going to stay here? In London, I mean."

"Why do you want to know?" the Doctor asked, frowning.

"We're not moving out soon, right?" Samuel added, his eyes full of expectation.

"I don't think so. Why, do you want to move somewhere else?"

"No, I like it here. I just wanted to be sure we'd be here for a while." The Doctor breathed a sigh of relief, but kept wondering what had prompted such questions from his son.

"I'm glad you like it. This is our home, our lives are here. I don't want to go anywhere else."

"Good, me neither."

"But we could still do some traveling, there's still some places you haven't seen," pressed the Doctor, hoping Sam would tell him what was bothering him.

"Yeah, I'd like that." A beat. The boy refilled his empty glass with water. Drunk a sip. Put the glass down. Then drunk another sip.

"Because, you see... I made a friend. Well, I think I did," he blurted out quickly, his eyes fixed on the fridge.

"Oh?" the Doctor said in a tone he hoped wasn't too expectant.

"She's a girl. But she's great...for a girl, I mean."

"Girls can make great friends," he said, trying not to smile.

"Yes, and she's really cool. She's even better than some boys at football. And she knows everything about superheroes," listed his son, having a hard time disguising his excitement.

"She sounds really nice."

"Her name is Alice, and she's in another class, I only met her during the trip because we were in the same group. But we'll be able to see each other during recess and lunch and other stuff at school, now."

"I'm glad you made a friend, Sam," the Doctor told him earnestly.

"That's why I was asking if we were moving. I really like her...even though she's a girl," he added with a small grimace the Doctor had a hard time not finding endearing.

He understood now where Sam's questions were coming from. He hadn't realised that although traveling the world with his mother must have been wonderful, it also meant moving around constantly and never settling anywhere for long. It must have been hard for the boy to build friendships.

"I've been living in London for twenty-five years, Sam. And I haven't tired of the place yet. We're staying, I promise."

"Okay, that's great. Oh, and Alice says my drawings are wicked. I should practise and make more," the boy declared, jumping from his stool and rushing to his room, obviously set on doing just that.

The Doctor smiled, watching him go, thinking that perhaps he should ask Sam if he wanted to invite his new friend at some point. Especially with the Easter holidays starting in a week. Parents did that, right?

Clara didn't know how she was supposed to deal with the Doctor ever since their talk in the kitchen. Things were mostly back to normal with Sam home, and she was busy making decisions about her future teaching career, but she could still feel that something had changed between them. He wasn't avoiding her like he might have done so in the past, but he wasn't actively seeking opportunities to be with her either. They were probably in need of another talk to clear things up, but unfortunately she didn't have the time, and of course he chose the worst possible moment to reassess their relationship.

On Thursday afternoon, with Sam at school and the Doctor at the hospital, she thought it safe to have her tutor meet her at the house. She was very excited about seeing him since he represented a new turning point in her life. He would be the one helping her in her transition from teaching at University to teaching in middle and upper schools. He was teaching mathematics himself at the school where she would start working the following month as an assistant. He was also quite handsome. And charming.

They were having tea in the sitting room and laughing at something when the Doctor showed up, earlier than expected. He had told her many times that she could have her friends come to the house, and she didn't feel guilty about meeting her tutor there, but she had still knowingly elected to see him when he was away. She wondered what that meant about her, exactly. The Doctor quickly masked his surprise when he saw them, but Clara could tell from experience that he was uncomfortable.

"Doctor," she said, standing up, "this is Danny Pink, my tutor. He'll be helping me in my new line of work."

"How do you do?" he asked politely, shaking the younger man's hand.

"Danny, this is the Doctor, he's my..." she cleared her throat, and started again, "he's a neurosurgeon, and I work as an au pair to his son."

"Nice to meet you," replied her tutor, perhaps expecting something more from the Doctor. But he smiled slightly and excused himself, saying he had work to do in his office.

Danny sat back down quickly, probably already forgetting the meeting, but it took Clara a lot more time to recover. _Shit_. Why had she fumbled for her words? She hadn't meant to say that the Doctor was '_her'_ anything. Her what? Lover? Part-time boyfriend? Confidant? And she was pretty sure the Doctor wouldn't have reacted if she hadn't messed up. But now he'd be bound to believe she was ashamed of him. And she wasn't. Definitely not. It had just seemed more professional to stay vague about their relation in front of her tutor. It wasn't any of his business, after all.

The Doctor clearly hadn't seen things that way. The look of hurt that had quickly flashed in his eyes had been painful to witness. She didn't pay much attention to the rest of the meeting, and the Doctor's office door stayed resolutely shut until it was time to pick Sam from school. After dinner, he asked her how the interview had gone, and although she tried to remain as unspecific as possible about Danny Pink, Clara thought she could now see something else in his eyes. _Jealousy_.

She had a hard time falling asleep that night, and kept beating herself over her stupid mistake. Making the Doctor jealous had never been her intention. She knew some girls enjoyed playing such games, but she had always found them pointless and shallow. She also knew that they wouldn't work on someone like the Doctor. They would only make him pull even further away, which was the last thing she wanted him to do, especially at a time when their relationship was so fragile.

Sighing, she rolled over on the mattress and sat up. There was no point wallowing in self-pity, she'd find a way to explain herself tomorrow. She picked up a book and decided a change of scenery wouldn't hurt. When she opened her door, she came very close to screaming out in fright - she'd bumped against an unknown shape in the dark.

"Sorry! It's me," whispered the Doctor, rubbing the upper arm she had sharply connected with. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," she said quietly, her heart hammering in her chest, "you just scared me, that's all."

"Sorry," he repeated.

Now that her eyes had gotten more used to the darkness, she could see that he was still dressed in his day clothes, and was holding a big pile of loose sheets in his hands.

"I was just about to leave this in front of your door," he explained. "I wasn't sure I'd be there tomorrow morning to give it to you in person."

"What?"

"Your thesis, I finished reading it. I, uh, printed it. It was easier. I hope you don't mind." He looked painfully unsure.

"Of course I don't mind, thank you," she tried to reassure him.

"I made some comments in the margins and printed a few things for you to look at. It might help you. Or not, I don't know. I'll let you decide for yourself, of course." Why did he sound so self-conscious? She wanted to ask him, but he didn't give her time.

"I thought it was wonderful. Really well-written and interesting. You do have a knack for explaining tedious literary aspects in a fascinating way. I know you'll be an amazing teacher and the kids will be lucky to have you."

Clara was stunned and utterly incapable of thanking him for his compliments. There were tears at the corners of her eyes and she smiled shakily.

"And that Danny Pink bloke seemed like a nice guy, I'm sure he'll be of great help for your career. So, here," he added, handing her the pile, "let me know if you have any question. All the stuff I put in are only suggestions, obviously."

And he left. Walking back to his bedroom with a muttered 'good night'. She was too slow to stop him, words barely forming in her parched mouth before his door closed. _Shit! _She remained glued to the floor for a few seconds, and eventually moved back to her bedroom. Switching on the lights, she sat against the headboard and started reading what the Doctor had written.

It took her close to two hours to go through all his notes. Once she had started, she found herself unable to stop. And when she was done, she almost decided to leave her bedroom once more to go and hug the living daylights out of the ridiculously wonderful man next door. The act of reading the 400 pages must have in itself taken him hours. But the time needed to look up references and make relevant and incisive comments must have been enormous. She had been so relieved to finish her thesis, and quite fed up with the subject by the end of it. And yet, the Doctor's notes and suggestions gave her a new incentive to carry on. He had shown her what she needed to do in order to turn something relatively good into something amazing. Why couldn't he see that things could be the same with their relationship? For such a genius, he could be painfully idiotic. Unfortunately for her, this would soon prove the least of her worries.

The call came in during the afternoon, just as the Doctor had left to pick up Sam from school before the start of his night shift. When they came home, he saw that she hadn't moved from her spot on the sofa.

"Clara?" he asked, worried, Sam standing next to him.

"I have to pack," she mumbled, "I have to go."

"Go where?" he pressed gently, walking towards her in order to be in her line of vision.

"Liverpool. Home. It's my dad." Her tone was clipped and her eyes were fixed on the fireplace in front of her.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Sam in a small voice, and his question made her react. She hadn't realised he was in the room and looked at him with a small smile before turning towards the Doctor.

"They said he had a stroke. A doctor from the hospital called. He said he was going to be fine and that I shouldn't worry. But he said I couldn't speak to him, and he wouldn't tell me more about his state so I'm not sure if I should believe him. I have to go and see for myself," she blurted out quickly, out of breath.

"Slow down, Clara," the Doctor told her quietly, sitting across from her on the sturdy coffee table, "and just tell me exactly what the doctor told you."

"He said that my dad was alright, but do you think he could be lying? Do you think he was..." she looked at Sam, still standing next to the Doctor, his small hands clenched, "Do you think he was preparing me for bad news? And that..."

"No, he wouldn't do that," he interrupted her, wanting nothing more than take her in his arms to make her shakings stop.

"Did he leave his name and number?" she nodded, "Do you want me to call him? I'm sure I can make him tell me more."

"You... You could really do that?"

"Of course, Clara."

How dared this man reduce Clara to this panicked state? Didn't he have any training? He sure as hell wouldn't mind speaking to his Head of Clinical Services afterwards. Sam sat right next to her while he was calling, and she seemed grateful for his presence. He tried not to raise his voice but it was hard to resist given the young man's obnoxious attitude. But he managed to convince him to hand the phone to the Neurology consultant, who was thankfully in the vicinity. The Doctor then got a very different welcome, and all the information he wanted. It helped that the man had clearly recognised who he was when he introduced himself. As a further professional curtesy, he even offered to send him the test results via email straight away. Being more than a little famous in the medical field certainly had its advantages. The Doctor wouldn't be surprised to learn that the insufferable trainee who had called Clara would also be taken down a peg or two. How unfortunate.

When he hung up, he could see that Clara looked a little more like herself already. She had probably surmised from his one-sided conversation that things weren't as bad as she had started to imagine. The Doctor sat back on the coffee table, and found both her eyes and Sam's staring at him expectantly.

"The neurologist is going to send me your father's results, but from what he told me I can already tell you that he is going to be fine." They both visibly relaxed, and Clara allowed herself a small, relieved smile.

"He had a transient ischemic attack, a TIA, which is also called a mini-stroke. It is in no way as severe or as damaging as a stroke and can have very few lasting effects. I understand that he won't need surgery, and should be discharged tomorrow or the next day, which tells me that his symptoms are not in any way threatening."

She nodded, tears of relief rolling down her cheeks.

"Okay, that's good. Thank you so much, Doctor."

"In any case, they'll wait for you to arrive before discharging him, and I don't think he'll need any medical home care. I'll look at his results, but I'm sure they'll put him on some basic anti-coagulant medication. What he'll have to be careful with though is his diet. He should probably stop smoking and exercise a bit more, as well. He'll be perfectly fine if he does all that."

"I've been telling him to stop smoking for years, and he always tells me he's cut back, but I know he's lying. Oh, he's going to love his new diet, you'll see. Allergic to greens, yeah, right," she puffed, her tone resolute.

She stood, and when he saw her approach he understood her intent and copied her movement. She fell in his arms and exhaled deeply. He felt her trembling slightly still, and pressed her against his chest.

"Thank you," she whispered against his shoulder, her eyes tightly closed.

"You're welcome," he answered, the smell of her hair distracting him.

His resolution was crumbling at his feet. Yesterday, after seeing her with her young and dashing tutor, he had decided that it was probably best to let her go. The past few days had shown him that he was rubbish at the whole relationship thing, and that she deserved better. She deserved someone who could make her just as happy as Martha. And he'd stupidly believed that he could try to be her friend, instead. He'd told Sam that girls made great friends, after all. But feeling her so close to him and utterly content in his arms, he realised that it had been a pipe dream. Worse, just imagining her with someone else, like that Danny Pink, had woken ugly feelings inside him. Feelings he hadn't experienced since Glasgow. Clara could never be _simply_ his friend. It was far too late for that.

"Oh, but I can't leave tonight!" she suddenly said, backing away, with her hands on his shoulders and her eyes wide. "Your shift!"

"Don't worry about that, I'll work something out," he told her, already missing her smell.

"But what about the next few days? What about Sam?" she pressed, anxious.

His son looked at him hopefully from his spot on the sofa, visibly okay with anything he might come up with as long as it helped Clara.

"Well, since he's on holidays, I thought we might go on a trip ourselves. I can take a few days off, they certainly owe me that at the hospital."

"Where would we be going, dad?" asked Sam, already smiling at his idea.

"Not very far since it's a bit last minute, but I thought we could go to Paris, maybe. Have you ever been there?" he shook his head emphatically, "Would you like to go?"

"Yes, I'd love that!"

"Perfect," he replied. "We'll be fine Clara, don't worry about us. Your dad needs you." She nodded, apparently convinced.

"Did you look at the trains?"

"There's one leaving in a little more than an hour from Euston Station. But I can leave tomorrow, surely," she insisted, her eyes falling once more on Sam, who looked absolutely thrilled about going on another trip already.

"Don't be daft. And I can drive you to the station if you want, it'll be quicker. Why don't you pack while I call the hospital to reschedule my shift?"

He wasn't used to give Clara directives, but she seemed to need his guidance at a time like this. She eventually agreed, and went upstairs.

Sam was engrossed in the old Paris tour guide he had found for him when Clara finally came down with her suitcase, so the Doctor thought he'd be fine staying home while he drove her to the station. But before they left, he surprised the both of them by giving Clara a fierce hug. She had a hard time letting him go and made him promise to tell her everything about Paris when she came back.

When the Doctor finally managed to find a spot to park at the station, they only had a few minutes to spare. But he insisted on taking the suitcase out of the boot for her. They stood awkwardly next to the car, facing each other. When he saw worry lines suddenly appear on her face once more, he leaned down and kissed her quickly. Almost reflexively.

"Sorry," he said, uncertain about her frame of mind or her opinion regarding the state of their relationship.

"Don't be," she replied, smiling genuinely for the first time in hours, "I'm not."

She kissed him deeply, her hands resting just over his heart, and left.

"Bye, Doctor," she gave as a parting shot.

"Bye," he repeated mechanically, a stupid smile on his face.


	7. Chapter 7

**Puncture Repair – Chapter 7**

**A/N**: So here it is finally, the last chapter. Sorry for having taken such a long time.

* * *

He wasn't running for once, but rather walking at a leisurely pace. In fact, he wasn't even walking alone. He held a small hand tightly in his. Danger might lie ahead and he wouldn't let go, not for anything in the world. This hand was precious to him, he could feel it, yet oh so fragile. The walls were covered with strangely familiar white tiles, and as they started to close in around him, he gripped the tiny hand with enough force to hurt. Forms and shadows were bumping against them, and his feet were compelled to take shorter and shorter steps. Soon, he had to slow down to a stop. Something was very wrong. He couldn't feel the child's presence next to him and the hand had let go. He swallowed back a scream, realising too late that he had forgotten who he was supposed to call after. Surely, this should be easy. He'd been standing right next to him. He _had_ to know who it was. The name escaped him. It was as though it had been erased from his brain in an instant, never to be remembered again. He thought he could see a small figure running in the distance, running away from him. Was that the person whose hand he had been holding just now? Was he scared? Had he frightened him somehow? But who was it? What was his name? It was there, on the tip of his tongue, but it just wouldn't come out. It was a simple name, a name he knew very well and loved. It was, it was...

"Dad, wake up!"

The Doctor sat up. His heart was racing and the dark room was spinning. He tried to speak up unsuccessfully as a small shape gradually became visible next to him. _Sam_. Of course it was Sam. They were in their hotel room in Paris and he'd probably just inadvertently woken the boy up. He blindly reached for his son's closest hand and held it tightly for a few seconds. It stopped his own hand from trembling and he finally released the breath that hadn't been able to escape his chest since he opened his eyes.

"Are you okay?" asked the boy in a whisper. His voice barely managed to cover the Doctor's erratic breathing. He nodded, closing his eyes forcefully to try and calm himself. He didn't want to scare his son, but it was apparently too late for that.

"Yes, I'm sorry Sam. Just a nightmare. I'm fine, now."

"Do you want me to switch on the light or get you some water?"

The Doctor pressed his lips together in a thin smile and shook his head in the negative. He could feel his heartbeat finally returning to a calmer tempo.

"Thank you, but I'm going to be okay. You can go back to bed."

The child seemed reluctant to move away from him, but eventually his short legs took him back to the other side of the room. The Doctor heard the rustle of sheets as he laid back down and stared at the dark ceiling. It was a few minutes before Sam started speaking again.

"Dad?" he asked in a clear voice, clearly not on the verge of falling back to sleep.

"I'm okay, Sammy," the Doctor answered pre-emptively.

"Was it a really bad one?" inquired his son, disregarding his assurance.

"I'm fine now, that's all that matters, and you need to go back to sleep," he replied in a tone that he hoped was reassuring enough.

"You can tell me about it if you want to, I'm not tired."

The Doctor rolled his eyes, realising that there was no point avoiding the subject. Sam was proving once more just as stubborn as he was, and he couldn't help but feel secretly proud of that fact. Even though he knew he would probably come to regret that he had inherited this particular trait down the line.

"You should try and get some rest, it's our last day here tomorrow and you planned quite a schedule."

He heard the boy huff slightly from the other side of the room. Sam didn't like to be reminded that they would be leaving the French capital soon.

"I know, but I really want to see all those places one more time before we go. Even if it's only for a few minutes."

"Don't worry, we'll have time to do everything," he told him reassuringly.

The boy had taken an immediate liking to the city, and they had made the most of their five day vacation despite the unpredictable weather. They now both found themselves nervous about leaving Paris behind. Not really the place per say, since they could come back whenever they wanted, but rather what it represented. Having virtually spent each and every second together, it was almost painful to imagine going back to London and their everyday life. The Doctor had truly felt like a father for the first time. A father taking his son on a holiday. So it hadn't mattered that it rained or that the Louvre was crowded. What mattered was that they had done everything together. The walks in the _marais_ and _île Saint Louis_. The cafés in _quartier Saint Michel_. The Eiffel Tower and Notre-Dame. They had wandered and admired the sights and complained about their blistered feet at the end of the day. They had laughed and they had run for cover during particularly violent rainstorms. They had bought almost all the pastries at a _pâtisserie _and didn't mind the sore tummies that resulted from eating them in one go. Always together. And the memories would stay with them for a very long time. At least, that was what the Doctor hoped.

One of the first things he had done when they arrived was buying a camera. He had let Sam take pictures for Clara, but he'd mostly used it himself to record their time together. Seeing the photo album under his son's bed had reminded him that children grew up quickly, and he didn't want to miss anything else from the boy's life.

"We should take some more pictures, as well," said Sam, as though he'd been reading his mind, "Clara wanted me to tell her everything about Paris when we came back."

"Yes, let's do that," he answered.

There was a pause in the conversation, and the Doctor thought that his son had finally gone back to sleep.

"She _is_ coming back, right?" he then asked in a small voice.

"Of course she is, don't worry."

But the Doctor was frowning in the darkness of the bedroom. He was concerned, even though Clara hadn't mentioned anything about the possibility of not coming back to London. Coming back to him. To them.

"She has a new job waiting for her, remember?"

"But the school's really far away, isn't it? What if she has to move?" Sam added in a rush.

He sighed, wishing he could find the right words to set his son's mind at ease. But the truth was, he couldn't find the words to reassure himself.

"I'm sure she would have said something. You should really try to go back to sleep, Sam," pressed the Doctor, hoping that the subject would be closed. Mentioning Clara made his dread of going back to London that much greater. He was desperate to see her again, but dreadfully anxious that things would irrevocably change between them. They might have parted on good terms, yet he was very much aware that their relationship was in limbo. At best.

"You should ask her tomorrow when she calls," his son suggested.

He smiled slightly at Samuel's very serious tone. It always amused him that a nine year old child could sound so wise. He actually found comfort in those words – Sam was right to point out that Clara had called him every day since the start of their holiday. At first, the calls had mostly been focused on her dad's health and his recommendations. But they had quickly turned into something more. He could tell that the young woman needed reassurance to help her deal with the trying situation, but he also believed that they had somehow grown closer in the meantime. Which was paradoxical given the many miles separating them. The Doctor felt as though the conversations they had – short as they were - would have never been possible if they had been face to face. The distance allowed him to be more truthful, and to voice his feelings better. He'd certainly miss those calls. Although maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to trust himself more around her.

But for that to happen, she would have to be there in the first place. Sam was right when he pointed out that her new job would take her to the other side of London. The commute would be quite bothersome and it'd certainly be easier for her if she were to move closer.

"I really want her to stay, dad," the boy added unnecessarily.

"Me too, Sam," the Doctor replied.

Clara was fidgeting. She couldn't decide whether the train was moving too fast or too slow. Nevertheless, she would be in London in a little over an hour, and she didn't think she was ready to face the Doctor yet. She had missed him terribly - him and his son, really – but she was uncharacteristically scared of seeing him again. Scared of finding out if his feelings now ran as deep as hers. The past week spent in Liverpool had been eye opening, in more ways than one.

She'd never imagined that she would have that kind of relationship with him. The kind where just the thought of seeing him made her heart beat faster. The kind where the prospect of hearing him on the phone every day had made her smile and blush simultaneously. What if he didn't feel the same? They had never put a label on what or who they were to each other. Perhaps he'd just assume they would go back to being friends, or whatever the hell they had actually become before she'd left. Clara knew they had jumped too quickly into a relationship. They had never properly defined the situation. At the time, she had thought it best not to focus too closely on what this all meant - she just wanted to enjoy being with him. She had never been this carefree about any aspect of her life. This, more than anything else, terrified her. How could she have so completely let herself be submerged by the tidal wave that this man represented? How could she have so willingly taken leave of her senses? She was certainly paying the price for her foolishness now. She didn't think she could handle going back to the way things were between them. She was tired of pretending she didn't want anything more. Because she did. She wanted to be able to voice her feelings, and not swallow back her words for fear of his reaction. For fear of his rejection.

Clara wasn't the kind of person who let other people decide what was best for her. And the week she had spent with her dad had reminded her of that. She'd been completely focussed on him and his health the first couple of days, but when she had finally allowed herself to realise that he would soon be perfectly alright, she was faced with the startling reality that as much as she loved her father and had been scared out of her wits by his stroke, her place wasn't there. Her place was back in London, with the Doctor and Samuel. Liverpool had stopped being her home after her mother's death, and she still slightly resented her father for selling their old house and moving to the other side of Kirkdale. She understood that the memories might have been too much for him to handle, but she would have liked him to take her opinion into consideration.

She often felt as though she was still a child in his eyes. And as much as it had pained her at first to leave the only place she had ever called home to go to to University in London, it was the only step she thought she could take if she wanted to build a life for herself. A life that didn't include her father and his grief. Selfish of her, perhaps, given the silent reproach she could read in her dad's eyes every time she came for a visit, which hadn't been very often the first few years, despite her desperate feelings of longing and homesickness. Yet leaving Liverpool had been liberating.

They had been very close when she was growing up, but when her mother got sick he had started pulling away from her, probably in the stupid hope that it would protect her from tragedy. But tragedy had struck, and he hadn't been prepared, believing up until the last minute that her mum would magically heal and come home. Clara, on the other hand, had known from an early age that fairy tales didn't necessarily end on a happy note. And that the greatest ones, the ones you really remembered and cherished forever, were often rather sad.

Talking to the Doctor everyday had cemented that fact in her mind. Fairy tales could have dreadfully sombre elements, such as an orphaned childhood or bereavement, but it didn't make them any less magical. Clara had never heard such carefree happiness in his tone and she had no doubt that the time he was spending with his son in Paris was one of the most joyous experiences of his life.

What she hadn't anticipated was the fact that the Doctor would inadvertently turn out to be what brought her closer to her father. Closer than she had believed possible in view of their vastly different outlook on life – at least on the surface.

Her third day back in Liverpool was the Doctor and Sam's first day in Paris. She had called him early in the evening following a heated debate with her own self. Should she actually phone him now that he was on holidays and her dad was on the mend? In the end, boredom and curiosity had won over. And she didn't see her father come into the room, so focussed was she on listening to the Doctor order dinner at some restaurant in flawless French over the phone.

"Of course, you speak French. I should have known, really," she needlessly pointed out.

"Well, obviously I speak French," he replied in a deadpan voice.

Despite the distance, she could tell when he smiled with that almost imperceptible grin at the corner of his mouth. The grin she never quite managed not to answer with one of her own.

"Obviously. And what did you actually order? Tell me so that I can be just that much jealous of you two."

He paused, and the silence told Clara that he also wished she were there with them. And that silence was more than enough for her. She then heard Sam in the background asking something.

"Sam wants to know how you and your dad are doing," he reported.

"We're good, thank you. Tell him he'd better be taking notes on all the places you visit. I want to know everything."

"I'll tell him."

She smiled a little sadly, wishing she could read the obvious excitement she heard in the boy's voice on his face.

"Don't let me keep you. You should enjoy your meal."

"It hasn't arrived yet and Sam's trying to draw a gargoyle he saw on Notre-Dame from memory. It might take a while."

She interpreted this as his way of telling her that he wasn't ready to hang up yet, so she didn't. And they talked mindlessly about their days until their _crêpes_ arrived on the table.

Clara knew she must have looked rather ridiculous with her rosy cheeks and stupid grin, which was why her first reaction at seeing her father sitting on the sofa was annoyance. The conversation, as unremarkable as it was, had been deeply private. She berated herself for not realising that he had come into the room, then berated herself some more for not worrying about his health first and foremost.

"Sorry, dad. I didn't see you there. Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

"So, was that him, then?" her father asked, unconcerned by her questions. Clara couldn't see his face from where she was standing, and despite the wariness she felt at the prospect of sharing such a personal thing with him, she decided to go and sit next to him.

"Him who?" she replied, a small carefree smile that she chose not to hide from her dad still on her lips.

"You look happy," he said in quiet amazement.

Clara didn't know whether she should agree with him on that assessment or frown at his surprise. _Wasn't she allowed to be happy? _She therefore remained silent and observed him. He'd lost weight in the few days he'd spent at the hospital, and despite the lines around his mouth and eyes, he now looked a lot more like the father of her youth. Which was perhaps why her defences didn't rise up in his presence for once. The idea of having an actual adult conversation with him appealed to her.

"That was the Doctor. I told you about him. I'm an au pair for his nine year old son, Samuel."

"And you live with him. With them," he added rhetorically.

"Yes," she nonetheless felt compelled to say, staring at him pointedly. She hoped he understood what the three letter word encompassed. _Yes, I do live with him. Yes, he's the one who's making me happy._

"Maybe I could meethim someday." Once again, it hadn't been a question.

"Maybe."

She smiled again. Serenely. And the tender look she saw on her father's face was reminiscent of much better times.

They had talked in the following days. Long conversations they hadn't had in an age. Clara realised that his stroke had forced him to come face to face with his own mortality. Something almost everyone went through at some point in their lives. Getting him to change his diet and daily routine had been the easy part of her stay. Letting her father see the person she had become these last few years was infinitely harder. And yet it had felt achingly cathartic and necessary. She didn't think she'd told him much about the Doctor. But in a way, he'd been the subject of every talk. Her present life. Her future expectations. Her past regrets. Even though she hadn't seen him for days, he'd never left her. Not really. And now, as the train was approaching London, she wondered what was waiting for her at the end of the figurative – and not so figurative – tunnel.

_This is stupid_, the Doctor thought for the hundredth time. He shouldn't have come. He shouldn't be standing there like a pathetic old man. A pathetic _lovesick_ old man. Which was even worse. He felt about a thousand years old, standing there amongst the crowd of commuters, travellers and onlookers. The Doctor could tell which ones belonged to the same category as him – that of family members, partners and friends. They all had that same look of joyful expectation on their faces. But he felt like an intruder, like he didn't actually belong – what right did he have to be there? How could he justify his presence at the station to himself? Yes, Clara _had_ told him when she was coming back, but he hadn't warned her he would be there. And she hadn't asked him to. Would she take it badly? Would she see it for what it was, his desperate need to see her and hold her in his arms? His desperate need to tell her that he'd missed her and didn't want to part from her ever again? Would she be able to see how scared he was of losing her? _She would, if his hands wouldn't stop shaking by the time she arrived_, he realised.

He congratulated himself for having decided against bringing flowers. That would have looked even _more_ ridiculous. There was a young man across from him with a bunch of daisies in his hands. Daisies were a weird choice. They didn't even smell that nice. No, for Clara it would have to be roses. Too obvious, perhaps. But that's what he would have gotten her if he hadn't been able to resist. Fearing he would make a fool of himself, he had managed not to look at the flower shop next to the car park. He didn't want Clara to feel awkward and compelled to take the flowers when she didn't want them.

This train of thought was exhausting. _Stop focussing on stupid flowers and try not to screw this up_. The Doctor wanted to make a good impression, and show the young woman that he cared for her. He didn't want to spook her, especially with Sam's words weighing heavily on his mind: _is she coming back?_ She clearly was coming back, but that was only the first step. Now he had to make sure that she stayed. Of course, he could just ask her. But if life were so easy, then he wouldn't be standing there feeling sorry for himself in the first place.

When he heard on the Tannoy that her train was entering the station, he took a deep breath. _Now or never_. He tried to look as nonchalant as possible as he scanned the arriving crowd at the end of the platform. He spotted her red suitcase before he spotted her, and he had to bite his lips to prevent himself from smiling like an idiot. Clara did a double take when she caught his sight. He couldn't help the tingles that travelled all across his limbs when he noticed how her eyes seemed to drink him in and roam over his features appreciatively. Blood was still noisily rushing to his ears when he eventually managed to say something.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice hoarse and his hands sweaty.

"Hey," she repeated, her cheeks a nice pink colour.

"You didn't have to come and pick me up," she added, apparently having less of a hard time finding her voice.

"I was in the neighbourhood," he replied, but the joke fell flat. "I had a night shift yesterday, so I was free to come. And since you told me when your train arrived, and..."

"It was nice of you, in any case," she interrupted his ranting, her eyes attempting vainly to communicate her glee. But he was still talking.

"...and with your heavy suitcase, I knew the car would be more..."

"Or you could just say that you missed me and wanted to see me. That would work, too," she tried again, surprising herself. She meant what she said, and that description was true enough as far as she was herself concerned. But she hadn't thought she'd dare say those words out loud. Not when she knew how squeamish the Doctor could be when it came to voicing his feelings. And yet he managed to surprise her as well.

"Yeah, I could say that."

The smile that had died on her lips was blossoming once more, and the Doctor felt himself physically drawn to her mouth and her eyes and her cheeks. Each spot his gaze lingered on he felt he needed to touch. His hands found themselves low on her back and he pressed her against him in the time that it took her to let go of her suitcase. He breathed in deeply, his nose against her neck, and she closed her eyes.

"I missed you," he supplied unnecessarily. But hearing those words didn't hurt. On the contrary.

"See, wasn't so hard to say, was it?"

"No. Maybe I should say it more often."

"Maybe," she agreed, "And I missed you too," she eventually added, not knowing why she hadn't thought of mentioning it sooner.

She felt his grin just before he finally let go of her, his hands lingering on her waist for a few more seconds.

"Let's go home?" he asked, and Clara didn't hear any hesitation in his words.

"Yeah," she replied, and the Doctor could read in her eyes that 'home' held the same meaning for the both of them.

Clara asked about Sam as soon as they reached the door and she didn't find the boy behind it.

"He's at his friend Alice for a sleepover. He was really excited. I thought it would be nice for him, with school starting again in a couple of days."

"It's good that he made a friend. But you know what that means, right?"

"What?" he asked, looking worried.

"That you're going to have to agree on a sleepover here, too. To return the favour," she replied, enjoying his bewilderment. He'd probably expected a lot worse, but he still looked uneasy.

"Don't worry, I'll be there to help you chaperone."

"Will you?" he breathed out, his eyes very serious.

"Of course," she replied, frowning slightly. _Where was this coming from?_

He cleared his throat and let his hands travel along the bristled cheeks he hadn't shaved that morning and reach his hair. He was more than nervous, Clara thought. He was downright terrified. To think that she had been so overjoyed by his candidness at the station...

"Doctor, what is it?" she asked, her suitcase still at her feet and her coat now heavy and uncomfortable on her shoulders.

"Are you okay with staying here?"

"Stay here, what do you mean? Are you planning on moving?"

"No," he replied quickly, his voice higher than usual, "No, it's just..." he started again, more quietly. Sam had made the question sound so easy. So simple. Just a yes or no question, after all. Why was it so difficult? The Doctor sighed and dropped his shoulders, feeling drained already.

"With your new job starting next week in Lewisham, I thought..."

"You thought _I_ would be moving out?" she supplied, her eyebrows raised in astonishment.

"Doctor, my job will basically be some kind of internship two days a week. I wouldn't really call it a job, much less an incentive to move all the way across London" she paused, taking note of how uneasy he looked.

"Unless..." she muttered, feeling her throat close up.

"Unless?" the Doctor pressed, his eyes fixed on hers now that he had heard doubt creeping in her voice.

"Unless you... want me to move?"

The penny finally dropped for the both of them, and the Doctor realised how badly he'd handled this conversation from the beginning. He swallowed thickly and stood up straighter. It was imperative he didn't mess this up, so he forced himself to approach Clara's very still frame and rebelled against all the inner voices in his head that urged him to stay away. He gently gripped her hands in his and marvelled once again at their smallness. He couldn't reconcile the fact that someone with such tiny hands could hold so much power over him.

"Of course I don't want you to move, that's not what I meant," he said, waiting for her eyes to reach his face. Fortunately, he didn't have to wait long.

"Clara, I know I'm terrible at this, and I'm sorry. I want you to stay. I really want you to stay. And Sam wants you to stay, too," he added, thinking that one more argument couldn't hurt his case.

"Then why did you ask me if I was okay with staying here?" she asked, her brow still knit in confusion.

"Because apparently I'm an idiot who can't ask you a simple question," he supplied, feeling equally foolish and angry at himself.

Clara smirked, more familiar with that particular tone of his, and realised how much she'd missed it.

"You're not an idiot", she said, a fond look in her eyes to counter the Doctor's scowl. "I think you're just a bit rusty with the whole communication skills thing."

"Rusty? It's more like gangrene at this point," he deadpanned.

"Well, don't go chopping off anything yet, though. I'm rather fond of you."

"Fond of me, really?" he wondered out loud, his cheeks probably just as pink as hers. But Clara attributed the sudden warmth she felt rushing to her face to the heavy coat she was still wearing. She nodded, and the Doctor slid his hands up her arms tentatively to settle them on her shoulders.

"How are you, by the way? I didn't even ask." The Doctor was gently framing her face with his fingers, visibly more at ease with himself now that the air was cleared between them.

"Good," Clara replied, her own hands coming to rest over his in the hope that he would keep stroking her cheeks so tenderly. "I'm glad to be home."

His lips twitched slightly to form that infectious grin, and instead of copying it, she leaned over to kiss him. Gently, at first. Then gradually with more insistence, owing to the Doctor's eager response.

"So I was thinking..." he eventually started to say, his mouth against her neck and her hands brushing through his soft curls.

"Please don't," she cut in lightly, feeling his answering smile on her sensitive skin. She shivered and he pressed her closer. They should definitely stop speaking.

"Why don't we go somewhere for lunch tomorrow? All three of us..." A lingering kiss on her pulse point. "Sam would like that."

"Sure..." she replied non-committally, her mind clearly elsewhere.

"I really think he missed you, and he's taken lots of notes and pictures to show you." His hands were now sliding underneath both her coat and sweater, and she couldn't stop the breathless gasp that escaped her when he encircled her waist.

"Great, can't wait..."

When his fingers reached the underside of her bra and he looked as though he was about to say something else, Clara tugged him down towards her and reclaimed his lips in a heated kiss. When she felt a wall against her back, it finally dawned on her that they still hadn't properly set foot inside the house and stood tantalisingly close to the staircase leading to the bedrooms upstairs.

"So, what about tonight?" she asked, winded in the most enjoyable way.

"What do you mean, tonight?" he replied, and Clara was glad to see that he finally looked the part, with his vacant stare and rumpled hair. She pressed herself more snugly against him to help him focus, and his strangled moan told her that she was successful.

"What are you planing on doing tonight?" she added, raising one leg to his waist while his hand automatically came to assist her. He then looked at her as though his answer was obvious. She raised an eyebrow in jest and he started moving his hips against hers.

"Well... I don't know. Are you hungry?"

Clara replied by raising her other leg to sneak around his midsection.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Food can wait."

The cold woke him the next morning. And for a moment, he thought that Clara had left the bed. But he sighed in relief when he saw her long brown hair peeking out from the comforter at the other side of the bed. Funny how they had somehow inadvertently moved to opposite directions during the night, even though they had fallen asleep with barely an inch of space separating them. He realised that it was probably his doing. Clara was definitely more of a cuddler than him, and he'd forgotten what it was like to share a bed with someone all the night through. But if it meant waking up in the cold every morning, then he'd willingly learn to look past his reticence. Hell, he'd probably come to enjoy sharing his warmth with her. Because he had come to an important decision the previous day, as he was awkwardly walking up the stairs with Clara practically draped over him. He wanted her in his bed. His own bed. No more Tardis nonsense, that's where she would belong from now on. And he hadn't missed the wonder in Clara's eyes when he had insisted they went to his bedroom and not hers.

He thought he'd better start learning how to act the part now, so he slowly slid closer to her inviting frame. Reaching her, he planted a barely there kiss on her neck, which was the only part she'd kept uncovered. It was still early morning, and the Doctor knew that his colder limbs would surely wake her if he were to reach across her naked waist to curl up against her. So he took the time to warm up first and blink away his slumber. Breathing in the smell of her hair languidly, he allowed himself to contemplate the words she had said to him the previous night in the darkness of his bedroom. He didn't think he could acknowledge those words - much less repeat them - for a little while yet. But he was getting there. Soon he'd be able to say them back freely.

When she sighed in contentment as he was gently tracing the curve of her spine with the pads of his fingers, he knew she was awake. And yet she didn't speak or turn towards him. She let him continue on his journey, mapping away the contours of a body he was starting to be rather familiar with. He knew the spots that made her shiver, the ones that tickled, the ones that made her breath catch, and the ones that almost always led to her whispering his name in the way that he liked.

"Doctor..."

As always, he'd aimed right, and Clara lazily turned towards him on the mattress, her eyes still half in dreamland but her smile very real.

"Morning," he said.

"Is it really morning yet?" she replied, her voice scratchy with sleep, "Surely it can't be. I just closed my eyes."

"That's what happens when you wake me in the middle of the night," he cheekily supplied.

"You weren't complaining at the time," she mumbled, burrowing her head against his chest in the hope that sleep would welcome her once more.

"And I'm certainly not complaining now," the Doctor added, pressing his prickly chin against her forehead. She started by grumbling in irritation but he quickly had her smiling again.

She stopped his movements by sliding her hands over his cheeks, and she raised herself higher on the pillow they were sharing to look into his eyes. In the pale light of the room, they looked startlingly blue to her. Their colour was almost painful to watch. Clara kissed him soundly on the lips, her fingers continuing to caress his stubbly cheeks. Soon, she was straddling his waist to get better access to his mouth, and they were both breathing heavily when he started speaking again.

"I have to go and pick up Sam," he said once he had cleared his throat. Clara enjoyed the rumble of his words reverberating against her hands resting on his chest.

"When?" she asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible when all she wanted was to keep her lover in bed for as long as possible.

"Not just yet," the Doctor replied, very much aware of his arousal and her burning stare.

"But you can stay in bed if you want to sleep a wee bit longer," he announced with a smirk that did nothing to hide his obvious intent.

"Well," Clara said, arching an eyebrow in jest, "it's your bed after all."

"You look rather good in it, I have to say."

"Oh, do I?"

"And perhaps you should become a more permanent fixture in it," he added. His tone was still light, but Clara saw in his eyes that his sentence was very serious. He looked apprehensive, and she knew there was no way she'd rebuff him. Especially not when he was displaying such raw honesty, as hidden as it was behind the veil of humour.

"Fixture? Is that a Scottish term of endearment I never knew existed until now?" She felt him relax under her as he brought his hands to her waist.

"How very romantic," she lamented jokingly, her nose millimetres from his as she settled more snugly over his thin frame. Fortunately, Sam didn't complain when the Doctor showed up a bit later than expected.

Sunday, the gloomy weather compelled them to stay indoors, but they tried not to let the grey sky or the looming week ahead dampen their spirits. The day before had turned out brilliantly after all, with the Doctor taking a very excited Sam and equally radiant Clara on a small trip to Brighton to enjoy a sunny day at the seaside.

Clara had now taken residence at the dinner table in the living room where she had managed to cover all the available surface with notes and books. Although she would only be required to sit at the back of classrooms and observe at first, she still wanted to be ready and know the curriculum she would hopefully start teaching come September.

The Doctor was sitting on the sofa, with his laptop across from him. Sam was on the carpet at his feet, in order to see the screen better.

"Oh, we should definitely keep this one!" he suggested enthusiastically.

They were in the process of sorting out the pictures they'd taken in Paris. The Doctor couldn't believe there were so many, and he found himself hard pressed to discard any of them. Especially the ones which showed Sam. The boy didn't seem self-conscious about that fact, and once they had selected the best shots that they would show to Clara later, he even asked if he could have some of the pictures printed.

"They would look great in my..." he started saying, then stopped himself abruptly, looking chastised.

"In what, Sammy?" the Doctor asked quietly, knowing what he was probably referring to and hoping his son was now trusting him enough to tell him.

He looked up at him from the floor, his cheeks reddening and his eyes so much like his that it made the Doctor swallow hard.

"I've got, hum... This photo album, in my bedroom. With old pictures of me and stuff. Maybe I could add some of the pictures you've taken in it?"

"Of course, Sam. As many as you want," he paused, and felt his heart hammering painfully in his chest when he asked the next question, "Would you show me the album one day? I'd love to see what you looked like when you were smaller."

Sam pursed his lips. The Doctor was aware of how big this step would be for his son. Telling him about the album was one thing, but showing it to him willingly was another. He looked towards Clara who was still working on her notes at the table, even though she'd probably heard every word and was just as anxious to hear the boy's answer as the Doctor.

"I could show you now," he whispered furtively, "in my room."

The boy stared at him hopefully yet with unguarded timidity. The Doctor slowly counted to five in his head to compose himself and he smiled tenderly, nodding. Sam was ready to share this very private keepsake with him, but he wasn't ready to show it to anyone else, yet. Even Clara. And the album wasn't to leave the haven of his room. He more than understood all that, and couldn't believe his luck. He hoped he didn't sound too nervous as he encouraged his son to go upstairs and wait for him while he picked up something from his office. He'd followed Clara's idea to keep the couple of pictures from his own childhood at hand in the eventuality that this very moment occurred. She'd been right, and when he walked back in the living room holding the small envelope, he almost jumped out of his skin when he felt her hand clutching his tightly. He looked back at her silently and squeezed her hand back in gratitude.

It wasn't difficult for him to pretend that he hadn't seen Sam's pictures before, because the experience was so much different with the boy next to him. What had been a painful process was now turning into a treasured moment. One he would certainly revisit many times in the future. His son was telling him the stories behind some of the pictures, and even though he spent more time lingering on the shots showing his mother, the Doctor didn't read overwhelming sadness in the boy's eyes. He seemed glad to share his memories with him and talk freely of his time before coming to live in London.

"I don't think I want to be an archaeologist any more," he blurted out while they were looking at the more recent pictures taken in Egypt. From the very tone of his sentence, the Doctor knew that it was something that his son had been thinking about for a while, now. But hadn't found the courage or the opportunity to tell him.

"You can be whatever you like, Sam. And you still have a lot of time to think about it," he said, trying to reassure him.

"But I said I would. I told her that's what I wanted to be," he replied, furrowing his brow.

The Doctor didn't need to ask who the 'her' referred to. And it wasn't hard either to understand why he sounded so guilty.

"I'm sure she would want you to choose something you love. She wouldn't blame you for doing something different than her."

"I don't know if I want to be a doctor or a surgeon either," he added in a rush, his eyes wide.

The Doctor had a hard time hiding his smile when he answered: "And that's okay too, Sammy. I don't want you to feel forced to do anything because of me." He looked around the bedroom at the drawings covering the walls and suggested, "I think you could be a brilliant artist for instance."

It seemed to be a good answer, since Sam was giving him a rare toothy grin.

"You really think so? That would be so great! Or maybe an architect or something. The buildings I drew in Paris were really tricky but I liked it a lot."

"That sounds like a wonderful idea and as I said, you can take your time deciding."

The boy was still smiling when they reached the end of the album. When he asked what was in the envelope in his hands, the Doctor showed him the two pictures. And when Sam inquired about his own childhood he answered his questions, even though it was a harder task than he had expected.

"But if you lived in orphanages and homes, that means you never met your parents?" he eventually realised out loud.

"Well, no. I told you I was an orphan."

"I thought that it was because your parents were dead, not because you didn't know who they were," Sam admitted.

The Doctor was taken aback by his son's words. While he understood why such a distinction was important for someone like Sam who had already lost one parent, he found himself unable to explain to him why he had deliberately chosen not to make it. No matter how painful it might be. From a very early age, he had preferred to believe that his parents were dead rather than alive and unconcerned by his existence.

"Did you ever try to find them?"

"Yes, but it never led me very far," he acknowledged, a familiar weight settling somewhere over his heart. It was an old ache he hadn't felt in a long time, but it was always there, as though lying dormant somewhere in the very branches of his genes, encoded into his DNA.

"Why don't you try again?"

The question was so pure and innocent, and he could read similar frankness in his son's eyes, but it was impossible for him to give a simple answer. Sure, it would be easy to tell him that had his parents been alive when he was a child, they were probably dead now. But such a justification wouldn't work on Samuel. He was starting to know what his boy was like, and elusiveness was not part of his make-up.

Sitting there on his son's bed, with the photo album lying open between them and seeing the child's utter trust in his gaze, he realised that there was another answer he could give him. One he had only recently started to accept as real. _I no longer need to_. I no longer need to try and look for my family because I've finally found it. I found it in you. And perhaps even in Clara. But he couldn't say that to a nine year old. Or maybe he could, but not in so many words.

"I might start again," he settled on saying, understanding that having his son in his life could actually be a new incentive for him. That closure was at hand as long as he could count on his child being there.

"Maybe we have some family members somewhere," Sam added, making it clear for the Doctor that his search wouldn't be a lonely quest.

"I shall take you to Scotland with me one day, and show you around where I grew up. If you feel like it."

The boy nodded enthusiastically and asked him some more questions about his childhood. He answered them as truthfully as he could and the pain in his heart started eroding slowly.

Even though she'd only had to go to Lewisham three times this week to observe classes, Clara readily admitted to herself that she was exhausted. She'd probably be asleep if it wasn't for Sam and the Doctor talking about the new room they would be fitting inside the Tardis. The Doctor had suggested that Sam should have his own room in the canal boat, and that they could spare a part of the kitchen and a cupboard to accommodate it. The boy had jumped at the prospect, already picturing all the trips they could take. Nothing could apparently dampen his excitement, not even the fact that the engine wasn't even fixed yet.

"Are you okay, Clara?" asked the Doctor a few minutes later as they were stopping at a red light.

They were on their way to Martha's engagement party. It was to take place at her parents' house in Dulwich and attended by a very wide variety of guests. The Doctor had been surprised to get an invitation, but his young registrar had seemed so adamant that he couldn't refuse.

"I'm fine, just a bit tired with all the travelling around this week. But I'll get used to it," she added resolutely, remembering the Doctor's worried words on the subject.

"It's also a lot more pleasant in a car. Maybe I should think about buying one," she mused.

"Or you could have my old Norton Commando if you wanted. It's in storage but it's working perfectly," the Doctor suggested casually.

Clara turned towards him in puzzlement.

"Your what?"

"My motorcycle. A 1973 Commando 850, it's an absolute beauty and wonderful to ride, I got it when it first came out," he passionately described. Clara found it both endearing and worrying. She had a hard time picturing his lanky frame on a motorbike, but then she still didn't know much about his past. Perhaps that was something that he used to do.

"Wait a minute," she cut in, quickly doing the maths, "you were only fifteen or sixteen when it came out in 1973, how come you were riding one?"

He shrugged, the very picture of innocence. Clara saw a spark of teenage rebellion in his eyes. _Something we will have to look out for in Samuel in a few years._ She found herself often saying 'we' in her mind now, when it came to her and the Doctor, and especially when it concerned Sam's upbringing. She was strangely fine with that realisation.

Martha's parents house was already teeming with family members and friends when they arrived. She could see that the Doctor had automatically gravitated towards the people that he knew - his work colleagues. He wasn't too keen on socialising and given what she knew about him, Clara couldn't say that she was surprised. Sam seemed pretty shy as well at first, but as the afternoon wore on he started making friends with the other children present, and they were soon playing in the garden outside. Amongst said children were Martha's cousins Angie and Artie. She was thrilled to see them again, and marvelled at how much they had grown with their father, Mr. Maitland. She also made the acquaintance of his new wife, a bubbly woman named Sandra and their nine month old daughter Astrid.

She spent a long time cooing and making faces at the baby, who seemed happy with the attention she was getting, and it took her a while to notice that the Doctor was observing her from the other side of the room. He stood on his own while other people talked around him and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight. Clara felt slightly self-conscious although she couldn't understand why at first. When she handed Astrid back to her mother and walked towards the Doctor it came to her, just as she was reaching his side. From up close, it was easier to read the longing in his stare.

"You didn't have to stop torturing that poor babe on my account," he deadpanned, trying to downplay his reaction. The man probably didn't realise how transparent he'd been, Clara thought fleetingly.

Still, she chose to humour him for now: "Babies are strange creatures, then. They seem to enjoy this kind of treatment."

"They certainly are strange," he replied, his gaze once more lingering on the small child who was actually now starting to complain about being transferred to so many different pairs of arms.

Clara turned in the same direction as him, and they stood side by side, their shoulders rubbing but their eyes fixed on the other side of the room. She felt him breathe in deeply, which gave him the courage he needed to be truthful.

"You're good with them. Children, I mean," he added, although she'd understood. Of course she had.

"It usually helps when you want to become a teacher," she supplied, aware that her own banter was also indicative of apprehension.

"No, but... With babies as well. It's...nice. You'll be a wonderful mum one day, I'm sure."

"Too bad I want to start a new career, then."

"That's why they invented fathers."

She quickly turned towards him in amazement. And when she saw how flustered he looked, she went back to staring vacantly ahead of her.

"I mean, if you were, hypothetically, thinking about having a child, the father could always cut back on his own job. You know, stay at home and all that. Perhaps he would even enjoy it." He'd rushed through his words, but he couldn't have been more straightforward if he'd tried.

"Hypothetically?" she underlined with a small smile he couldn't see.

"Of course hypothetically," he replied gruffly, which turned her smile into a grin.

The Doctor was still thinking about that conversation on Wednesday night while sharing his usual midnight pot of tea with Martha in his office.

"Samuel seemed to have enjoyed himself," pointed out his registrar, not realising that the Doctor was miles away.

"What?"

"At the party on Saturday," she pointed out, amused by his obvious befuddlement.

"Oh, yeah. He seems to make friends more easily now."

"That's good. And I couldn't help noticing his accent," she added.

"His accent?"

"It's not really an accent, perhaps, but some of his inflections are definitely more Scottish now," Martha supplied while the Doctor looked at her with wide eyes.

"No, you can't be hearing right. Why would he do that?"

"Oh, come on, Doctor. Why not? I think it's rather sweet. And it's not that noticeable. I hadn't heard him speak in a while, that's why I could tell. It's different for you because you see him every day."

He started fidgeting in his chair and didn't know whether he should feel angry or not. But who would deserve his anger? Himself for having influenced the boy? Or his son for unconsciously copying his diction? He realised how stupid it would be to be upset over this, and settled on glaring at Martha.

"Shouldn't you be heading home?" he asked her, deflecting.

"Soon," she answered, familiar with his antics, "I'll be back tomorrow for Mr. Cole's check-up."

The Doctor nodded absently then froze.

"The small temporal lobe tumour we removed two months ago. Remember?" clarified Martha, thinking that the Doctor had stopped swivelling his chair because he had forgotten who the patient was.

But the Doctor's memory was intact, and he could picture quite clearly when the operation had taken place. Well, when it _should_ have taken place the first time at least. It was on the day that Sam had punched a kid at school. The day he'd met Clara. It seemed incredible that only two months had gone by. Two months ago, he barely had any conversation with his son and he woke up every morning with the distinct impression that he was failing him miserably.

"You okay, Doctor?"

"I'm fine, I was just remembering the surgery," he explained. From Martha's expression, he could tell that she knew very well what he had actually been thinking about.

"Oh, and Carver wanted to know if you could cover his shift on Saturday," she added, just remembering.

_Saturday?_ He had plans on Saturday. They were supposed to start working on fitting in Sam's room in the Tardis. And he wouldn't mind spending the morning in bed with Clara.

"I can't this weekend," he heard himself replying. Funny how he would have jumped at the occasion to help out two months ago.

"I'll tell him," Martha said with a smile that the Doctor thought looked rather proud.

* * *

**Epilogue**

Samuel loved the mornings on the Tardis. When the sun was already shining and he had breakfast with his dad on the deck. He never wanted this week to end, but he knew that September was almost upon them and that school would start soon.

They were taking a round trip North to Marsworth, and had reached the summit of the Chilterns on foot the previous day. This was the most wonderful birthday present he could have hoped for, and he couldn't wait to tell Alice about it and show her the new sketches he'd made.

He heard Clara coming up from below deck and he shared a private smile with his father. These days, Clara was always the last to rise, and him and his dad were secretly making up for all the times she had made fun of their early morning grogginess back in London.

"Morning," she mumbled, rolling the sleeves of her overlarge woollen sweater to give Sam's hair a fond pat.

"Morning," he replied, while she sat across from him next to his dad. They looked at each other for a few seconds before she surreptitiously sneaked a hand on the table to steal his cup of coffee. She inhaled the scent longingly and took a tentative sip.

"You do know that you're allowed to drink some coffee and tea. You're even allowed to drink it from your own cup," his father pointed out jokingly.

"I didn't use to like coffee, that's really unfair," she complained.

Retrieving his cup from her hands, he took a big mouthful of the hot beverage and made an appreciative sound.

"You're just being cruel," Clara said, but Sam saw the small smile at the corner of her lips.

"So, Sam, what do you want to do today?" she asked, turning towards him and looking slightly more awake already.

He pondered her question while observing them over the table. His dad had placed the cup within her reach, and Clara took another microscopic sip. Sam hoped that they would finally have that conversation with him. He knew they wanted to tell him – probably - but they never seemed to find the right moment. Frankly, he was getting tired of their antics. Did they really think he was that stupid? He'd just turned ten, after all. He wasn't a baby any more. And speaking of which, he secretly hoped that it would be a girl. A little sister sounded like an even better birthday present.

* * *

**PS**: A very warm thank you to all the people who've read or reviewed this story and carried it in their hearts all those months. Since I'm so terrible at saying goodbye, I might choose to revisit this world one day. But for now I think Sam, the Doctor and Clara are allowed some well-deserved rest.


End file.
